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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33ba24b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54619 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54619) diff --git a/old/54619-8.txt b/old/54619-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a29fa77..0000000 --- a/old/54619-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9490 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Farewell Love!, by Matilde Serao - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Farewell Love! - A Novel - -Author: Matilde Serao - -Translator: Mrs. Henry Harland - -Release Date: April 28, 2017 [EBook #54619] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAREWELL LOVE! *** - - - - -Produced by Andrés V. Galia, Chris Curnow and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - FAREWELL LOVE! - - - - - British Library - - of - - Continental Fiction. - - - Guy de Maupassant. - _PIERRE AND JEAN._ - - Matilde Serao. - _FAREWELL, LOVE._ - - Jonas Lie. - _NIOBE._ - - Count Lyon Tolstoi. - _WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT._ - - Juan Valera. - _DOÑA LUZ._ - - Don Armando Palacio Valdés. - _THE GRANDEE._ - - Gemma Ferruggia. - _WOMAN'S FOLLY._ - - Karl Emil Franzos. - _THE CHIEF JUSTICE._ - - Matilde Serao. - _FANTASY._ - - Rudolf Golm. - _THE OLD ADAM AND THE NEW EVE._ - - Ivan Gontcharoff. - _A COMMON STORY._ - - J. P. Jacobsen. - _SIREN VOICES._ - - Joseph Ignatius Kraszewski. - _THE JEW._ - - Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson. - _IN GOD'S WAY._ - -[Illustration: MATILDE SERAO] - - - - -[Illustration] - - MATILDE SERAO - - FAREWELL LOVE! - - A Novel - - BY - - MATILDE SERAO - - TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN - - BY - - Mrs. HENRY HARLAND - - LONDON: - LONDON BOOK CO. - 1906 - - (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED) - - - - - _SPECIAL LIMITED SUBSCRIPTION EDITION._ - - - - - _To - MY DEAD FRIEND - ... et ultra?_ - - _M. S._ - - - - - INTRODUCTION - - -The most prominent imaginative writer of the latest generation in -Italy is a woman. What little is known of the private life of Matilde -Serao (Mme. Scarfoglio) adds, as forcibly as what may be divined from -the tenour and material of her books, to the impression that every -student of literary history must have formed of the difficulties -which hem in the intellectual development of an ambitious girl. -Without unusual neglect, unusual misfortune, it seems impossible -for a woman to arrive at that experience which is essential to the -production of work which shall be able to compete with the work of -the best men. It is known that the elements of hardship and enforced -adventure have not been absent from the career of the distinguished -Italian novelist. Madame Serao has learned in the fierce school of -privation what she teaches to us with so much beauty and passion in -her stories. - -Matilde Serao was born on the 17th of March 1856, in the little town -of Patras, on the western coast of Greece. Her father, Francisco -Serao, was a Neapolitan political exile, her mother a Greek princess, -the last survivor of an ancient noble family. I know not under what -circumstances she came to the Italian home of her father, but it was -probably in 1861 or soon afterwards that the unification of Italy -permitted his return. At an early age, however, she seems to have -been left without resources. She received a rough education at the -Scuola Normale in Naples, and she obtained a small clerkship in the -telegraph office at Rome. - -Literature, however, was the profession she designed to excel in, and -she showed herself a realist at once. Her earliest story, if I do not -mistake, was that minute picture of the vicissitudes of a post-office -which is named _Telegraphi dello Stato_ ("State Telegraphs"). She -worked with extreme energy, she taught herself shorthand, and in 1878 -she quitted the post-office to become a reporter and a journalist. To -give herself full scope in this new employment, she, as I have been -assured, cut short her curly crop of hair, and adopted on occasion -male costume. She soon gained a great proficiency in reporting, -and advanced to the writing of short sketches and stories for -the newspapers. The power and originality of these attempts were -acknowledged, and the name of Matilde Serao gradually became one -of those which irresistibly attracted public attention. The writer -of these lines may be permitted to record the impression which more -than ten years ago was made upon him by reading a Neapolitan sketch, -signed by that then wholly obscure name, in a chance number of the -Roman _Fanfulla_. - -The short stories were first collected in a little volume in 1879. -In 1880 Matilde Serao became suddenly famous by the publication of -the charming story _Fantasia_ ("Fantasy"), which has already been -presented to an English public in the present series of translations. -It was followed by a much weaker study of Neapolitan life, _Cuore -Infermo_ ("A Heart Diseased"). In 1881 she published "The Life and -Adventures of Riccardo Joanna," to which she added a continuation in -1885. It is not possible to enumerate all Madame Serao's successive -publications, but the powerful romance, _La Conquista di Roma_ -("The Conquest of Rome"), 1882, must not be omitted. This is a very -careful and highly finished study of bureaucratic ambition, admirably -characterised. Since then she has written in rapid succession several -volumes of collected short stories, dealing with the oddities of -Neapolitan life, and a curious novel, "The Virtue of Cecchina," 1884. -Her latest romances, most of them short, have been _Terno Secco_ ("A -Dry Third"), a very charming episode of Italian life, illustrating -the frenzied interest taken in the public lotteries, 1887; _Addio -Amore_ ("Farewell Love!"), 1887, which is here, for the first time, -published in English; _La Granda Fiamma_, 1889; and _Sogno di una -notte d'estate_ ("A Summer Night's Dream"), 1890. - -The method of Matilde Serao's work, its qualities and its defects, -can only be comprehended by those who realise that she came to -literature through journalism. When she began life, in 1878, it was -as a reporter, a paragraph-writer, a woman of all work on any Roman -or Neapolitan newspaper which would give her employment. Later on, -she founded and carried on a newspaper of her own, the _Corriere -di Roma_. After publishing this lively sheet for a few years, she -passed to Naples, and became the editor of _Le Corriere di Napoli_, -the paper which enjoys the largest circulation of any journal in the -south of Italy. She has married a journalist, Eduardo Scarfoglio, and -all her life has been spent in ministering to the appetites of the -vast, rough crowd that buys cheap Italian newspapers. Her novels have -been the employment of her rare and broken leisure; they bear the -stamp of the more constant business of her life. - -The naturalism of Matilde Serao deserves to be distinguished from -that of the French contemporaries with whom she is commonly classed. -She has a fiercer passion, more of the true ardour of the South, than -Zola or Maupassant, but her temperament is distinctly related to -that of Daudet. She is an idealist working in the school of realism; -she climbs, on scaffolding of minute prosaic observation, to heights -which' are emotional and often lyrical. But her most obvious merit is -the acuteness with which she has learned to collect and arrange in -artistic form the elements of the town life of Southern Italy. She -still retains in her nature something of the newspaper reporter's -quicksilver, but it is sublimated by the genius of a poet. - - EDMUND GOSSE. - - - - - CONTENTS - - CHAPTER PAGE - PART I 1 - I. 3 - II. 19 - III. 46 - IV. 70 - V. 86 - VI. 114 - VII. 128 - PART II 149 - I. 151 - II. 170 - III. 188 - IV. 215 - V. 249 - - - - - PART I - - - I. - -Motionless under the white coverlet of her bed, Anna appeared to have -been sleeping soundly for the past two hours. - -Her sister Laura, who occupied a little cot at the other end of the -big room, had that evening much prolonged her customary reading, -which followed the last gossip of the day between the girls. But no -sooner had she put out her candle than Anna opened her eyes and fixed -them upon Laura's bed, which glimmered vaguely white in the distance. - -Anna was wide awake. - -She dared not move, she dared not even sigh; and all her life was in -her gaze, trying to penetrate the secret of the dusk--trying to see -whether really her sister was asleep. It was a winter's night, and as -the hour advanced the room became colder and colder; but Anna did not -feel it. - -The moment the light had been extinguished a flame had leapt from -her heart to her brain, diffusing itself through all her members, -scalding her veins, scorching her flesh, quickening the beating of -her pulses. As in the height of fever, she felt herself burning up; -her tongue was dry, her head was hot; and the icy air that entered -her lungs could not quench the fire in her, could not subdue the -tumultuous irruption of her young blood. - -Often, to relieve herself, she had longed to cry out, to moan; but -the fear of waking Laura held her silent. It was not, however, so -much from the great heat throbbing at her temples that she suffered, -as from her inability to know for certain whether her sister was -asleep. - -Sometimes she thought of moving noisily, so that her bed should -creak; then if Laura was awake, she would move in hers, and thus Anna -could make sure. But the fear of thereby still further lengthening -this time of waiting, kept her from letting the thought become an -action. She lay as motionless as if her limbs were bound down by a -thousand chains. - -She had lost all track of time, too; she had forgotten to count the -last strokes of the clock--the clock that could be heard from the -sitting-room adjoining. It seemed to her that she had been lying like -this for years, that she had been waiting for years, burning with -this maddening fire for years, that she had spent years trying to -pierce the darkness with her eyes. - -And then the horrible thought crossed her mind--What if the hour had -passed? Perhaps it had passed without her noticing it; she who had -waited for it so impatiently had let it escape. - -But no. Presently, deadened by the distance and the doors closed -between, she heard the clock ring out. - -The hour had come. - -Thereupon, with an infinite caution, born of infinite fear, slowly, -trembling, holding her breath at every sound, pausing, starting back, -going on, she sat up in bed, and at last slipped out of it. - -That vague spot of whiteness in the distance, where her sister lay, -still fascinated her; she kept her head turned in its direction, -while with her hands she felt for her shoes and stockings and -clothes. They were all there, placed conveniently near; but every -little difficulty she had to overcome in dressing, so as not to make -the slightest noise, represented a world of precautions, of pauses, -and of paralysing fears. - -When at last she had got on her frock of white serge, which shone out -in the darkness, "Perhaps Laura sees me," she thought. - -But she had made ready a big heavy black shawl, and in this she now -wrapped herself from head to foot, and the whiteness of her frock was -hidden. - -Then, having accomplished the miracle of dressing herself, she stood -still at her bedside; she had not dared to take a step as yet, sure -that by doing so she would wake Laura. - -"A little strength--Heaven send me a little strength," she prayed -inwardly. - -Then she set forth stealthily across the room. In the middle of it, -seized by a sudden audacious impulse, she called her sister's name, -in a whisper, "Laura, Laura," listening intensely. - -No answer. She went on, past the door, through the sitting-room, -the drawing-room, feeling her way amidst the chairs and tables. -She struck her shoulder against the frame of the door between the -sitting-room and the drawing-room, and halted for a moment, with a -beating heart. - -"_Madonna mia! Madonna mia!_" she murmured in an agony of terror. - -Then she had to pass before the room of her governess, Stella -Martini; but the poor, good lady was a sound sleeper, and Anna knew -it. - -When she reached the dining-room, it seemed to her that she must have -traversed a hundred separate chambers, a hundred entire apartments, -an endless chain of chambers and apartments. - -At last she opened the door that gave upon the terrace, and ran out -into the night, the cold, the blackness. She crossed the terrace to -the low dividing-wall between it and the next. - -"Giustino--Giustino," she called. - -Suddenly the shadow of a man appeared on the other terrace, very -near, very close to the wall of division. - -A voice answered: "Here I am, Anna." - -But she, taking his hand, drew him towards her, saying: "Come, come." - -He leapt over the little wall. - -Covered by her black mantle, without speaking, Anna bent her head and -broke into sobs. - -"What is it? What is wrong?" he asked, trying to see her face. - -Anna wept without answering. - -"Don't cry, don't cry. Tell me what's troubling you," he murmured -earnestly, with a caress in his words and in his voice. - -"Nothing, nothing. I was so frightened," she stammered. - -"Dearest, dearest, dearest!" he whispered. - -"Oh, I'm a poor creature--a poor thing," said she, with a desolate -gesture. - -"I love you so," said Giustino, simply, in a low voice. - -"Oh, say that again," she begged, ceasing to weep. - -"I love you so, Anna." - -"I adore you--my soul, my darling." - -"If you love me, you must be calm." - -"I adore you, my dearest one." - -"Promise me that you won't cry any more, then." - -"I adore you, I adore you, I adore you!" she repeated, her voice -heavy with emotion. - -He did not speak. It seemed as if he could find no words fit for -responding to such a passion. A cold gust of wind swept over them. - -"Are you cold?" he asked. - -"No: feel." And she gave him her hand. - -Her little hand, between those of Giustino, was indeed not cold; it -was burning. - -"That is love," said she. - -He lifted the hand gently to his lips, and kissed it lightly. And -thereupon, her eyes glowed in the darkness, like human stars of -passion. - -"My love is consuming me," she went on, as if speaking to herself. "I -can feel nothing else; neither cold, nor night, nor danger--nothing. -I can only feel _you_. I want nothing but your love. I only want -to live near you always--till death, and after death--always with -you--always, always." - -"Ah me!" sighed he, under his breath. - -"What did you say?" she cried, eagerly. - -"It was a sigh, dear one; a sigh over our dream." - -"Don't talk like that; don't say that," she exclaimed. - -"Why shouldn't I say it, Anna? The sweet dream that we have been -dreaming together--any day we may have to wake from it. They aren't -willing that we should live together." - -"Who--they?" - -"He who can dispose of you as he wishes, Cesare Dias." - -"Have you seen him?" - -"Yes; to-day." - -"And he won't consent?" - -"He won't consent." - -"Why not?" - -"Because you have money, and I have none. Because you are noble, and -I'm not." - -"But I adore you, Giustino." - -"That matters little to your guardian." - -"He's a bad man." - -"He's a man," said Giustino, shortly. - -"But it's an act of cruelty that he's committing," she cried, lifting -her hands towards heaven. - -Giustino did not speak. - -"What did you answer? What did you plead? Didn't you tell him again -that you love me, that I adore you, that I shall die if we are -separated? Didn't you describe our despair to him?" - -"It was useless," replied Giustino, sadly. - -"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! You didn't tell him of our love, of our -happiness? You didn't implore him, weeping? You didn't try to move -his hard old heart? But what sort of man are you; what sort of soul -have you, that you let them sentence us to death like this? O Lord! O -Lord!--what man have I been loving?" - -"Anna, Anna!" he said, softly. - -"Why didn't you defy him? Why didn't you rebel? You're young; you're -brave. How could Cesare Dias, almost an old man, with ice in his -veins, how could he frighten you?" - -"Because Cesare Dias was right, Anna," he answered quietly. - -"Oh, horror! Horrible sacrilege of love!" cried Anna, starting back. - -In her despair she had unconsciously allowed her shawl to drop from -her shoulders; it had fallen to the ground, at her feet. And now -she stood up before him like a white, desolate phantom, impelled by -sorrow to wander the earth on a quest that can never have an end. - -But he had a desperate courage, though it forced him to break with -the only woman he had ever loved. - -"Cesare Dias was right, my dearest Anna. I couldn't answer him. I'm a -poor young fellow, without a farthing." - -"Love is stronger than money." - -"I am a commoner, I have no title to give you." - -"Love is stronger than a title." - -"Everything is against our union, Anna." - -"Love is stronger than everything; stronger even than death." - -After this there befell a silence. But he felt that he must go to the -bottom of the subject. He saw his duty, and overcame his pain. - -"Think a little, Anna. Our souls were made for each other; but our -persons are placed in such different circumstances, separated by so -many things, such great distances, that not even a miracle could -unite them. You accuse me of being a traitor to our love, which is -our strength; but is it unworthy of us to conquer ourselves in such -a pass? Anna, Anna, it is I who lose everything; and yet I advise -you to forget this youthful fancy. You are young; you are beautiful; -you are rich; you are noble, and you love me; yet it is my duty to -say to you, forget me--forget me. Consider how great the sacrifice -is, and see if it is not our duty, as two good people, to make it -courageously. Anna, you will be loved again, better still, by a -better man. You deserve the purest and the noblest love. You won't -be unhappy long. Life is still sweet for you. You weep, yes; you -suffer; because you love me, because you are a dear, loving woman. -But afterwards, afterwards you will find your path broad and flowery. -It is I who will have nothing left; the light of my life will go out, -the fire in my heart. But what does it matter? You will forget me, -Anna." - -Anna, motionless, listened to him, uttering no word. - -"Speak," he said, anxiously. - -"I can't forget you," she answered. - -"Try--make the effort. Let us try not to see each other." - -"No, no; it's useless," she said, her voice dying on her lips. - -"What do you wish us to do?" - -"I don't know. I don't know." - -A great impulse of pity, greater than his own sorrow, assailed him. -He took her hands; they were cold now. - -"What is the matter with you? Are you ill?" - -She did not answer. She leant her head on his shoulder, and he -caressed her rich, brown hair. - -"Anna, what is it?" he whispered, thrilled by a wild emotion. - -"You don't love me." - -"How can you doubt it?" - -"If you loved me," she began, sobbing, "you would not propose our -separation. If you loved me you would not think such a separation -possible. If you loved me it would be like death to you to forget -and be forgotten. Giustino, you don't love me." - -"Anna, Anna!" - -"Judge by me," she went on, softly. "I'm a poor, weak woman; yet I -resist, I struggle. And we would conquer, we would conquer, if you -loved me." - -"Anna!" - -"Ah, don't call my name; don't speak my name. All this -tenderness--what's the use of it? It is good; it is wise; it is -comforting. But it is only tenderness; it isn't love. You can think, -reflect, determine. That isn't love. You speak of duty, of being -worthy--worthy of her who adores you, who sees nothing but you in -the whole wide world. I know nothing of all that. I love you. I know -nothing. And only now I realise that your love isn't love. You are -silent. I don't understand you. You can't understand me. Good-bye, -love!" - -She turned away from him, to move off. But he detained her. - -"What do you want to do?" he whispered. - -"If I can't live with you, I must die," she said, quietly, with her -eyes closed, as if she were thus awaiting death. - -"Don't speak of dying, Anna. Don't make my regret worse than it is. -It's I who have spoiled your life." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"It's I who have put bitterness into your sweet youth." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"It's I who have stirred you up to rebel against Cesare Dias, against -your sister Laura, against the wish of your parents and all your -friends." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"It is I who have called you from your sleep, who have exposed you to -a thousand dangers. Think, if you were discovered here you would be -lost." - -"It doesn't matter. Take me away." - -And Giustino, in spite of the darkness, could see her fond eyes -glowing. - -"If you would only take me away," she sighed. - -"But where?" - -"Anywhere--to any country. You will be my country." - -"Elope? A noble young girl--elope like an adventuress?" - -"Love will secure my pardon." - -"I will pardon you; no others will." - -"You will be my family, my all. Take me away." - -"Anna, Anna, where should we find refuge? Without means, without -friends, having committed a great fault, our life would be most -unhappy." - -"No, no, no! Take me away. We'll have a little time of poverty, after -which I shall get possession of my fortune. Take me away." - -"And I shall be accused of having made a good speculation. No, no, -Anna, it's impossible. I couldn't bear such a shame." - -She started away from him, pushing him back with a movement of horror. - -"What?" she cried. "What? You would be ashamed? It's your shame that -preoccupies you? And mine? Honoured, esteemed, loved, I care nothing -for this honour, this love, and am willing to lose all, the respect -of people, the affection of my relations--and you think of yourself! -I could have chosen any one of a multitude of young men of my own -rank, my own set, and I have chosen you because you were good and -honest and clever. And you are ashamed of what bad people and stupid -people may say of you! I--I brave everything. I lie, I deceive. I -leave my bed at the dead of night, steal out during my sister's -sleep--out of my room, out of my house, like a guilty servant, so -that they might call me the lowest of the low. I do all this to come -to you; and you are thinking of speculations, of what the world will -say about you. Oh, how strong you are, you men! How well you know -your way; how straight you march, never listening to the voices that -call to you, never feeling the hands that try to stop you--nothing, -nothing, nothing! You are men, and have your honour to look after, -your dignity to preserve, your delicate reputation to safeguard. You -are right, you are reasonable. And so we are fools; we are mad, who -step out of the path of honour and dignity for the love of you--we -poor silly creatures of our hearts!" - -Giustino had not attempted to protest against this outburst of -violent language; but every word of it, hot with wrath, vibrant -with sorrowful anger, stirred him to the quick, held him silenced, -frightened, shaken by her voice, by the tumult of her passion. Now -the fire which he had rashly kindled burnt up the whole beautiful, -simple, stable edifice of his planning, and all he could see left of -it was a smoking ruin. He loved her--she loved him; and though he -knew it was wild and unreasonable. "Forgive me," he said; "let us go -away." - -She put her hand upon his head, and he heard her murmur, under her -voice, "O God!" - -They both felt that their life was decided, that they had played the -grand stake of their existence. - -There was a long pause; she was the first to break it. - -"Listen, Giustino. Before we fly let me make one last attempt. You -have spoken to Cesare Dias; you have told him that you love me, that -I adore you; but he didn't believe you----" - -"It is true. He smiled incredulously." - -"He is a man who has seen a great deal of the world, who has been -loved, who has loved; but of all that nothing is left to him. He is -cold and solitary. He never speaks of his scepticism, but he believes -in nothing. He's a miserable, arid creature. I know that he despises -me, thinking me silly and enthusiastic. I pity him as I pity every -one who has no love in his heart. And yet--I will speak to Cesare -Dias. The truth will well up from me with such impetus that he cannot -refuse to believe me. I'll tell him everything. In spite of his -forty years, in spite of the corruption of his mind, in spite of all -his scorn, all his irony, true love will find convincing words. He'll -give his consent." - -"Can't you first persuade your sister? There we'd have an -affectionate ally," said Giustino, tentatively. - -"My sister is worse than Cesare Dias," she answered, with a slight -tremor of the voice; "I should never dare to depend on her." - -"You are afraid of her?" - -"Pray don't speak of her, don't speak of her. It's a subject which -pains me." - -"And yet----" - -"No, no. Laura knows nothing; she must know nothing; it would be -dreadful if she knew. I'd a thousand times rather speak to him. He -will remember his past; Laura has no past--she has nothing--she's a -dead soul. I will speak with him; he will believe me." - -"And if he shouldn't believe you?" - -"He _will_ believe me." - -"But, Anna, Anna, if he shouldn't?" - -"Then--we will elope. But I ought to make this last attempt. Heaven -will give me strength. Afterwards--I will write to you, I will tell -you everything. I daren't come here any more. It's too dangerous. If -any one should see me it would be the ruin of all our hopes. I'll -write to you. You'll arrange your own affairs in the meantime--as if -you were at the point of death, as if you were going to leave this -country never to return. You must be ready at any instant." - -"I'll be ready." - -"Surely?" - -"Surely." - -"Without a regret?" - -"Without a regret." But his voice died on his lips. - -"Thank you; you love me. We shall be so happy! You will see. Happier -than any one in the world!" - -"So happy!" murmured Giustino, faithful but sad. - -"And may Heaven help us," she concluded, fervently, putting out her -hand to leave him. - -He took her hand, and his pressure of it was a silent vow; but it was -the vow of a friend, of a brother, simple and austere. - -She moved slowly away, as if tired. He remained where he was, waiting -a little before returning to his own terrace. Not until some ten -minutes had passed, during which he heard no sound, no movement, -could he feel satisfied that Anna had safely reached her room. - -Once at home, he found himself used up, exhausted, without ideas, -without emotions. And speedily he fell asleep. - -She also was exhausted by the great moral crisis through which she -had passed. An immense burden seemed to bow her down, to make heavy -her footsteps, as she groped her way through the silent house. - -When she reached the sitting-room she stopped with sudden terror. A -light was burning in the bedroom. Laura would be awake, would have -remarked her absence, would be waiting for her. - -She stood still a long while. She could hear a sound as of the pages -of a book being turned. Laura was reading. - -At last she pushed open the door, and crossed the threshold. - -Laura looked at her, smiled haughtily, and did not speak. - -Anna fell on her knees before her, crying, "Forgive me. For pity's -sake, Laura, forgive me. Laura, Laura, Laura!" - -But the child remained silent, white and cold and virginal, never -ceasing to smile scornfully. - -Anna lay on the floor, weeping. And the winter dawn found her there, -weeping, weeping; while her sister slept peacefully. - - - - - II. - -The letter ran thus: - - "DEAREST LOVE,--I have had my interview with Cesare - Dias. What a man! His mere presence seemed to freeze me; it - was enough if he looked at me, with his big clear blue eyes, - for speech to fail me. There is something in his silence - which frightens me; and when he speaks, his sharp voice - quells me by its tone as well as by the hard things he says. - - "And yet this morning when he came for his usual visit, I - was bold enough to speak to him of my marriage. I spoke - simply, briefly, without trembling, though I could see that - the courtesy with which he listened was ironical. Laura was - present, taciturn and absent-minded as usual. She shrugged - her shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, and then, getting - up, left the room with that light footstep of hers which - scarcely seems to touch the earth. - - "Cesare Dias smiled without looking at me, and his smile - disconcerted me horribly, putting all my thoughts into - confusion. But I felt that I ought - to make the attempt--I ought. I had promised it to you, my - darling, and to myself. My life had become insupportable; - the more so because of my sister, who knew my secret, who - tortured me with her contempt--the contempt of a person who - has never loved for one who does--who might at any moment - betray me, and tell the story of that wintry night. - - "Cesare Dias smiled, and didn't seem to care in the least - to hear what I had to say. However, in spite of my emotion, - in spite of the fact that I was talking to a man who cared - nothing for me and for whom I cared nothing, in spite of the - gulf that divides a character like mine from that of Cesare - Dias, I had the courage to tell him that I adored you, that - I wished to live and die with you, that my fortune would - suffice for our needs, that I would never marry any one but - you; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, I besought him, as - my guardian, my nearest relation, my wisest friend, to give - his consent to our marriage. - - "He had listened, with his eyes cast down, giving no sign of - interest. And now at the end he simply uttered a dry little - 'No.' - - "And then took place a dreadful scene. I implored, I wept, I - rebelled, I declared that my heart was free, that my person - was free; and always I found that I was addressing a man of - stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an utterly false - point of view, a conventional standard based upon the opinion - of the world, and a total lack of - good feeling. Cesare Dias denied that I loved you, denied - that you loved me, denied that any such thing as real love - could exist--real love for which people live and die! He - denied that love was a thing not to be forgotten; denied that - love is the only thing that makes life worth while. His one - word was No--no, no, no, from the beginning to the end of our - talk. He made the most specious, extravagant, and cynical - arguments to convince me that I was deceiving myself, that we - were deceiving ourselves, and that it was his duty to oppose - himself to our folly. Oh, how I wept! How I abased my spirit - before that man, who reasoned in this cold strain! and how - it hurts me now to think of the way I humiliated myself! I - remember that while my love for you, dearest, was breaking - out in wild utterance, I saw that he was looking admiringly - at me, as in a theatre he might admire an actor who was - cleverly feigning passion. He did not believe me; and two or - three times my anger rose to such a point that I stooped to - threaten him; I threatened to make a public scandal. - - "'The scandal will fall on the person who makes it,' he said - severely, getting up, to cut short the conversation. - - "He went away. In the drawing-room I heard him talking - quietly with Laura, as if nothing had happened, as if he - hadn't left me broken-hearted, as if he didn't know that I - was on my knees, in despair, calling upon the names of the - Madonna and the Saints for help. But that man has no - soul; and I am surrounded by people who think me a mad - enthusiast. - - "My love, my darling love, my constant thought--it is then - decided: we must fly. We must fly. Here, like this, I should - die. Anything will be better than this house; it is a prison. - Anything is better than the galleys. - - "I know that what I propose is very grave. According to - the common judgment of mankind a young girl who elopes is - everlastingly dishonoured. In spite of the sanctity of - marriage, suspicion never leaves her. I know that I am - throwing away a great deal for a dream of love. But that is - my strange and cruel destiny--the destiny which has given me - a fortune and taken away my father; given me a heart eager - for affection and cut me off from all affection; given me the - dearest and at the same time the least loving sister! - - "For whom ought I to sacrifice myself, since those who loved me are - dead, and those who live with me do not love me? I need love; I have - found it; I will attach myself to it; I will not let it go. Who will - weep for me here? No one. Whose hands will be stretched out to call - me back? No one's. What memories will I carry away with me? None. - I am lonely and misunderstood; I am flying from ice and snow to - the warm sunlight of love. You are the sun, you are my love. Don't - think ill of me. I am not like other girls, girls who have a home, - a family, a nest. I am a poor pilgrim, seeking a home, a family, a - nest. I will be your wife, your sweetheart, your servant; I love - you. A life passed in the holy atmosphere of your love will be an - absolution for this fault that I am committing. I know, the world - will not forgive me. But I despise people who can't understand one's - sacrificing everything for love. And those who do not understand - it will pity me. I shall care for nothing but your love; you will - forgive me because you love me. - - "So, it is decided. On the third day after you receive - this letter--that is, on Friday--leave your house as if - you were going for a walk, without luggage, and take a cab - to the railway station. Take the train that leaves Naples - for Salerno at one o'clock, and arrives at Pompeii at two. - I shan't be at the station at Pompeii--that might arouse - suspicions; but I shall be in the streets of the dead city, - looking at the ruins. Find me there--come as swiftly as - you can--to the Street of Tombs, leading to the Villa of - Diomedes, near to the grave of Nevoleia Tyche, 'a sweet - Pompeiian child,' according to her epitaph. We will meet - there, and then we will leave for Metaponto or Brindisi, and - sail for the East. I have money. You know, Cesare Dias, to - save himself trouble, has allowed me to receive my entire - income for the past two years. Afterwards--when this money is - spent--well, we will work for our living until I come of age. - - "You understand? You needn't worry about me. I shall get - out of the house, go to the station, and arrive at Pompeii - without being surprised. I have a bold and simple plan, - which I can't explain to you. It would not do for us to meet here - in town, the risk would be too great. But leaving for Pompeii - by separate trains, how can any one suspect us? Does my clearness - of mind astonish you? My calmness, my precision? For twenty days - I have been thinking of this matter; I have lain awake at night - studying it in detail. - - "Remember, remember: Friday, at noon, leave your house. At - one, leave the station. At half-past two come to me at the - grave of Nevoleia Tyche. Don't forget, for mercy's sake. If - you shouldn't arrive at the right time, what would become of - me, alone, at Pompeii, in anguish, devoured by anxiety? - - "My sweetest love, this is the last letter you will receive - from me. Why, as I write these words, does a feeling of - sorrow come upon me, making me bow my head? The word _last_ - is always sad, whenever it is spoken. Will you always love - me, even though far from your country, even though poor, even - though unhappy? You won't accuse me of having wronged you? - You will protect me and sustain me with your love? You will - be kind, honest, loyal. You will be all that I care for in - the world. - - "This is my last letter, it is true, but soon now our - wondrous future will begin--our life together. Remember, - remember where I shall wait for you. - - "ANNA." - -Alone in his little house, Giustino Morelli read Anna's letter twice -through, slowly, slowly. Then his head fell upon his breast. He felt -that he was lost, ruined; that Anna was lost and ruined. - - * * * * * - -At that early morning hour the Church of Santa Chiara, white with -stucco, rich with gold ornamentation, with softly carved marbles and -old pictures, was almost empty. A few pious old women moved vaguely -here and there, wrapped in black shawls; a few knelt praying before -the altar. Anna Acquaviva and her governess, Stella Martini, were -seated in the middle of the church, with their eyes bent on their -prayer-books. Stella Martini had a worn, sunken face, that must have -once been delicately pretty, with that sort of prettiness which -fades before thirty. Anna wore a dark serge frock, with a jacket in -the English fashion; and her black hair was held in place by a comb -of yellow tortoise-shell. The warm pallor of her face was broken by -no trace of colour. Every now and then she bit her lips nervously. -She had held her prayer-book open for a long while without turning -a page. But Stella Martini had not noticed this; she was praying -fervently. - -Presently the young girl rose. - -"I am going to confession," she said, standing still, holding on to -the back of her chair. - -The governess did not seek to detain her. With a light step she -crossed the church and entered a confessional. - -There the good priest, with the round, childlike face and the crown -of snow-white hair, asked his usual questions quietly, not surprised -by the tremor in the voice that answered him. He knew the character -of his penitent. - -But Anna answered incoherently; often not understanding the sense of -the simple words the priest addressed to her. Sometimes she did not -answer at all, but only sighed behind the grating. - -At last her confessor asked with some anxiety: "What is it that -troubles you?" - -"Father, I am in great danger," she said in a low voice. - -But when he sought to learn what her danger was she would give him no -details. He begged her to speak frankly, to tell him everything; she -only murmured: - -"Father, I am threatened with disgrace." - -Then he became severe, reminding her that it was a great sin to -come thus and trifle with a sacrament of the church, to come to the -confessional and refuse to confess. He could not give her absolution. - -"I will come another time," she said rising. - -But now, instead of returning to her governess, who was still praying -with her eyes cast down, Anna stole swiftly out of the church into -the street, where she hailed a cab, and bade the cabman drive to the -railway station. She drew down the blinds of the carriage windows, -and there in the darkness she could scarcely suppress a cry of -mingled joy and pain to find herself at last alone and free. - -The cab rolled on and on; it was like the movement of a dream. The -only thing she could think of was this beautiful and terrible idea, -that she, Anna Acquaviva, had abandoned for ever her home and her -family, carrying away only so much of her fortune as the purse in -her pocket could hold, to throw herself into the arms of Giustino -Morelli. No feeling of fear held her back. Her entire past life was -ended, she could never take it up again; it was over, it was over. - -In that sort of somnambulism which accompanies a decisive action, she -was as exact and rigid in everything she had to do as an automaton. -At the station she paid her cabman, and mechanically asked for a -ticket to Pompeii at the booking-office. - -"Single or return?" inquired the clerk. - -"Single," she answered. - -As almost every one who went to Pompeii took a return ticket, the -clerk thought he had to do with an Englishwoman or an impassioned -antiquary. - -She put the ticket into the opening of her glove, and went into the -first-class waiting-room. She looked about her quite indifferently, -as if it was impossible that Cesare Dias or indeed any one of her -acquaintance should see her there. She was conscious of nothing save -a great need to go on, to go on; nothing else. It was the first time -in her life that she had been out alone like this, yet she felt no -surprise. It seemed to her that she had been travelling alone for -years; that Cesare Dias, Laura Acquaviva, and Stella Martini were -pale shadows of an infinitely distant past, a past anterior to her -present existence; that they were people she had known in another -world. She kept repeating to herself, like a child trying to remember -a word, - -"Pompeii, Pompeii, Pompeii." - -But when she was climbing into the first-class compartment of the -train, it seemed suddenly as if a force held her back, as if a -mysterious hand forbade her going on. She trembled, and had to make -a violent effort to enter the carriage, as if to brush aside an -invisible obstacle. And, from that moment, a voice within her seemed -to be murmuring confusedly to her conscience, warning her of the -great moral crisis she was approaching; while before her eyes the -blue Neapolitan coast was passing rapidly, where the wintry cold had -given way to a warm scirocco. On, on, the morning train hurried her, -over the land, by the sea, between the white houses of Portici, the -pink houses of Torre del Greco, the houses, pink, white, and yellow, -of Torre Annunziata--on, on. And Anna, motionless in her corner, -gazing out of the window, beheld a vague, delicious vision of flowers -and stars and kisses and caresses; and an icy terror, a sense of -imminent peril, lay upon her heart. Oh, yes! In a brilliant vision -she saw a future of love, of passion and tenderness, a fire-hued -vision of all that soul and body could desire; yet constantly that -still, small voice kept whispering to her conscience: "Don't go, -don't go. If you go, you are lost." - -And this presently became so unbearable that, when the train entered -the brown, burnt-up country at the foot of Vesuvius, the country -that surrounds the great ruin of Pompeii, despair was making her -twist the handle of her purse violently with her fingers. The green -vines and the laughing villages had disappeared from the landscape; -the blue sea, with its dancing white waves, had disappeared; she was -crossing a wide, desolate plain; and the volcano, with its eternal -wreath of smoke, rose before her. And also had disappeared for ever -the phantasms of her happiness! Anna was travelling alone, through a -sterile land, where fire had passed, devastating all life, killing -the flowers, destroying the people, their homes, their pleasures, -their loves. And the voice within her cried: "This is a symbol of -Passion, which destroys all things, and then dies itself." - -And then she thought that she had chosen ominously in coming to -Pompeii--a city of love, destroyed by fire, an everlasting reminder -to those who saw it of the tragedy of life--Pompeii, with its hard -heart of lava! - -She descended from the carriage when the train stopped, and followed -a family of Germans and two English clergymen out of the tiny station. - -She went on, looking neither to right nor left, up the narrow, dusty -lane that leads from the railway to the inn at the city's gate. -Neither the Germans nor the clergymen noticed her; the solitary young -woman, with the warm, pale face, and the great brown-black eyes -that gazed straight forward, without interest in what they saw, the -eyes of a soul consumed by an emotion. When they had all entered the -house, she ensconced herself in a corner near a window, and looked -out upon the path she had followed, as if waiting for somebody, or as -if wishing to turn back. - -And Anna was praying for the safe coming of Giustino. If she could -but see him, if she could but hear his voice, all her doubts, all her -pains, would fly away. - -"I adore him! I adore him!" she thought, and tried thus to find -strength with which to combat her conscience. Her heart was filled -with a single wish--to see Giustino; he would give her strength; he -was the reason for her life--he and love. She looked at her little -child's watch, the only jewel she had brought away; she had a long -time still to wait before two o'clock. - -An old guide approached her, and offered to show her the ruins. She -followed him mechanically. They traversed the Street of Hope, the -Street of Fortune, where there are the deep marks of carriage wheels -in the stone pavement; they entered houses and shops and squares; she -looked at everything with vacant eyes. Twice the guide said: "Now let -us visit the Street of Tombs and the Villa of Diomedes." Twice she -had answered: "Later on; by-and-by." - -Two or three times she had sat down on a stone to rest; and then her -poor old guide had sat down also, at a distance, and let his head -fall forward on his breast, and dozed. She was strangely fatigued; -she had exhausted her forces in making the journey hither; the tumult -of emotion she had gone through had prostrated her. Now she felt -utterly alone and abandoned--a poor, unfortunate creature bearing -through this dead city a heavy burden of solitude and weariness: and -when, after a long rest, she got up to go on again, a great sigh -broke from her lips. - -But somehow she must pass the time, and so she went on. She climbed -to the top of the Amphitheatre, seeking to devour the minutes that -separated her from two o'clock. - -Presently the old man said, for the third time: "Now let us visit the -Street of Tombs and the Villa of Diomedes." - -"Let us go," she responded. - -The hours had passed at last; only one more remained. With her watch -in her hand, as the guide pointed out to her the magnificence of -the Villa of Diomedes, she was saying to herself, "Now Giustino is -leaving Naples." - -Impatient, no longer able to endure the voice or presence of the -old man, no longer able to hide her own perturbation, she paid and -dismissed him. He hesitated, reluctant to leave her, telling her that -it was forbidden to make sketches, and, above all, to carry anything -away; but he said it timidly, humbly, knowing very well that it was -needless to fear any such infractions from this pale girl with the -dreamy eyes. And he moved off, slowly, slowly, turning back every now -and then to see what she was doing. She sat down on a stone in front -of the tomb of the "sweet freed-woman," Nevoleia Tyche, and waited -there, her hands in her lap, her head bent; nor did she look up when -a party of English passed her, accompanied by a guide. This last hour -seemed interminable to her; it seemed covered by a great shadow, in -which all things were obscured. The name of Giustino, constantly -repeated, was like a single ray of light. She neither heard nor saw -what was going on round about her; her consciousness of the external -world was put out. - -Suddenly a shadow fell between her and the grey tomb of the -freed-woman. She looked up, and saw Giustino standing before her, -gazing down on her with an infinite despairing tenderness. - -Anna, unable to speak, gave him her hand, and rose. And a smile of -happiness, like a great light, shone from her eyes, and a warm colour -mantled her cheeks. Giustino had never seen her so beautiful. In -an ecstasy of joy, feeling all her doubts die within her, feeling -all the glory of her love spring to full life again, Anna could not -understand why there was an expression of sorrow on Giustino's face. - -"Do you love me--a great deal?" - -"A great deal." - -"You will always care for me?" - -"Always." - -It was like a sad, soft echo, but the girl did not notice that; a -veil of passion dimmed her perceptions. They walked on together, she -close to him, so happy that her feet scarcely touched the earth, -enjoying this minute of intense love with all the force of feeling -that she possessed, with all the self-surrender of which human nature -is capable. They walked on through the streets of Pompeii, without -seeing, without looking. Only again and again she said softly: "Tell -me that you love me--tell me that you love me!" - -Two or three times he had answered simply, "Yes," then he was silent. - -Suddenly, Anna, not hearing his answer, stood still, and taking his -arms in her hands, looked deep into his honest eyes, and asked, "What -is the matter?" - -Her voice trembled. He lowered his eyes. - -"Nothing," he said. - -"Why are you so sad?" - -"I'm not sad," he answered with an effort. - -"You're telling the truth?" - -"I'm telling the truth." - -"Swear that you love me." - -"Do you need me to swear it?" he exclaimed with such sincerity and -such pain that she was convinced, perceiving the sincerity, but not -the pain. - -But she was still troubled; there was still a bitterness in her joy. -They were near the Street of the Sea, which leads out of the dead -city. - -"Let us go away, let us go away," she said impatiently. - -"The train for Metaponto doesn't leave till six o'clock; we've plenty -of time." - -"Let us go away! I don't want to stay here any longer. I beg of you, -let us go." - -He obeyed her passively and was silent. They entered the inn on their -way to the station, at the same time as the two English clergymen. -Anna was frightened; she didn't care to talk of love to Giustino -before such witnesses, but she looked at him with fond, supplicating -eyes. The two clergymen seated themselves at the table which is -always laid in the chief room of the inn, and while they ate their -dinner one of them read his Bible, the other his Baedeker. The two -lovers were near the window, looking through the glass at the road -that leads to the station; and Anna was holding on to Giustino's arm, -and he, confused, nervous, asked her if she would not like to dine, -taking refuge from his embarrassment in the commonplace. "No; she did -not wish to dine, she wasn't hungry. Afterwards, by-and-by." And her -voice failed her as she looked at the two ecclesiastics. - -"I wish----" she began, whispering into Giustino's ear. - -"What do you wish?" - -"Take me away somewhere else, where I can say something to you." - -He hesitated; she blushed; then he left the room to speak to the -landlord; returning presently, "Come," he said. - -"Where are we going?" - -"Upstairs." - -"Upstairs?" - -"You will see." - -They went upstairs to the first floor, where the waiter who conducted -them opened the door of an apartment consisting of a bedroom and -sitting-room--a big bedroom, a tiny sitting-room--both having -balconies that looked off over the country, and there the waiter left -them alone. - -Each of them was pale, silent, confused. - -She looked round. The sitting-room was vulgarly furnished with a -green sofa, two green easy-chairs, a centre-table covered with a -nut-coloured jute tablecloth, and a marble console. The thought of -the many strangers who had inhabited it inspired her with a sort of -shame. Then she glanced into the bedroom. It was very large, with two -beds at the farther end, a dressing-table, a sofa, and a wardrobe. -These pieces of furniture seemed lost in the vast bare-looking -chamber. It gave her a shudder merely to look into it; and yet again -she blushed. - -She raised her eyes to Giustino's, and she noticed anew that he was -gazing at her with an expression of great sadness. - -"What is the matter?" she asked. - -He did not answer. He sat down and buried his face in his hands. - -"Tell me what it is," she insisted, trembling with anger and anguish. - -He remained silent. Perhaps he was weeping behind his hands. - -"If you don't tell me what it is, I'll go back to Naples," she said. - -He did not speak. - -"You despise me because I have left my home." - -"No, Anna," he murmured. - -"You think I'm dreadful--you think of me as an abandoned creature." - -"No, dear one--no." - -"Perhaps--you--love another woman." - -"You can't think that." - -"Perhaps--you have--another tie--without love." - -"None; I am bound to no one." - -"You have promised yourself to no one?" - -"To no one." - -"Then why are you so sad? Why do you weep? Why do you tremble? It is -I who ought to weep and tremble, and yet I don't weep unless to see -you weep. Your weeping breaks my heart, makes me desperate." - -"Anna, listen to me. By the memory of your mother I implore you -to listen, to understand. I am miserable because of you, on your -account--in thinking of what I have allowed you to do, of how you -are throwing away your future, of the unhappiness that awaits you; -without a home, without a name, persecuted by your family----" - -"If you loved me, you wouldn't think these things; you wouldn't say -them." - -"I have always said them, Anna; I have always repeated them. I have -ruined you. For three days I have been in an agony of remorse; it is -the same to-day. Though you are the light of my life, I must say it -to you. To-day I can't forgive myself; to-morrow you will be unable -to forgive me. Oh, my love! I am a gentleman, I am a Christian; and -yet I have been weak enough to allow you and me to commit this sin, -this fault." - -Speaking thus, with an infinite earnestness, all the honesty of his -noble soul showed itself, a soul bowed down by remorse. She looked at -him and listened to him with stupefaction, amazed at this spectacle -of a rectitude, of a virtue that was greater than love, for she -believed only in love. - -"I don't understand you," she said. - -"And yet you must--you must. If you don't see the reasons for my -conduct you will despise me, you will hate me. You must try, with -all your heart, with all your mind, to understand. You mustn't let -yourself be carried away by your love. You must be calm, you must be -cool." - -"I can't." - -"O God!" he said in despair. - -Again he was silent. She mechanically, to overcome the trembling -of her hands, pulled at the fringe of the tablecloth. She tried to -reflect, to understand. And always, always, she had the same feeling, -the same idea, and she could not help trying to express it in words: -"You don't love me enough." She looked into his eyes as she spoke, -concentrating her whole soul in her voice and in her gaze. - -"It is true, I don't love you enough," he answered. - -She made no sound: she was cut to the heart. The little sitting-room, -the inn, Pompeii, the whole world appeared to go whirling round her -dizzily. She had a feeling as if her temples would burst open, and -pressed her hands to them instinctively. - -"Ah, then," she said, after a long pause, in a broken voice--"ah, -then, you have deceived me?" - -"I have deceived you," he murmured humbly. - -"You haven't loved me?" - -"Not enough to forget everything else. I have already said so." - -"I understand. What was the use of lying?" - -"Because you were beautiful and good, and you loved me, and I didn't -see this danger. I didn't dream that you would wish to give up -everything in this way, that I should be unable to prevent you----" - -"Words, words. The essential is, you don't love me." - -"As you wish to be loved, as you deserve to be loved--no." - -"That is, without blind passion?" - -"Without blind passion." - -"That is, without fire, without enthusiasm?" - -"Without fire, without enthusiasm." - -"Then, with what?" - -"With tenderness, with affection, with devotion." - -"It is not enough, not enough, not enough," she said monotonously, -as if talking in her sleep. "Don't you know how to love differently. -More--as I love----?" - -"No, I don't know how." - -"Do you think you never can? Perhaps you can to-morrow, or in the -future?" - -"No, I never can, Anna. I shall always prefer duty to happiness." - -"Poor, weak creature," she murmured with immense scorn. - -He lifted his eyes towards heaven, as if seeking strength to endure -his martyrdom. - -"So," Anna went on, slowly, "if we were to live together, you would -be unhappy?" - -"We should both be unhappy, and the sight of your unhappiness, of -which I should be the cause, would kill me." - -"Well, then?" - -"It's for you to say what you wish." - -The cruel, the terrible reality was clear to her; there was only one -thing to be said, and that was so unexpectedly dreadful that she -hesitated to say it. The truth was so horrible, she could not bear to -give it shape in speech. She looked at him--at this man who, to save -her, inflicted such inexpressible pain upon her. And he understood -that Anna could not pronounce the last words. He himself, in spite -of his great courage, could not speak them, those last words, for he -loved the girl wildly. The terrible truth appalled them both. - -She got up stiffly and went to the window and leaned her forehead -against the glass, looking out over the country and down the lane -that led to the little station. Twice before that day she had looked -at the same silent landscape; but in the morning, when she was alone, -waiting, thrilling with hope, and again, only an hour ago, leaning on -Giustino's arm, she had possessed entire the priceless treasure of -a great love. Now, now all was over; nevermore, nevermore would she -know the delight of love: all was over, all, all. - -Giustino had not moved from where he sat with his face buried in his -hands. Suddenly Anna seized him by the shoulders, forced him to raise -his head, and began to speak, so close to him that he could feel her -warm breath on his cheek. - -"And yet you did love me," she said, passionately. "You can't deny -it; I know it. I have seen you turn pale when you met me, as pale as -I myself. If I spoke to you my voice made your eyes brighten, as your -voice made my heart leap. You looked for me everywhere, as I looked -for you, feeling that the world would be colourless without love. -And your letters bore the imprint of a great tenderness. But that is -love, true love, passionate love, which isn't forgotten in a day or -in a year, for which a whole life-time is not sufficient. It isn't -possible that you don't love me any more. You do love me; you are -deceiving me when you say you don't. I don't know why. But speak the -truth--tell me that it is impossible for you to have got over such a -passion." - -He felt all his courage leaving him under this tumult of words. - -"Giustino, Giustino, think of what you are doing in denying our love. -Think of the two lives you are ruining; for you yourself will be as -miserable as I. Giustino, you will kill me; if you leave me here, I -shall kill myself. Let us go away; let us go away together. Take me -away. You love me. Let us start at once; now is the time." - -It seemed for a moment as if he were on the point of giving way. He -was a man with a man's nerves, a man's senses, a man's heart; and he -loved her ardently. But when again she begged him to fly with her, -and he felt himself almost yielding, he made a great effort to resist -her. - -"I can't, Anna; I cannot," he said in a low voice. - -"Then you wish me to die?" - -"You won't die. You are young. You will live to be happy again." - -"All is over for me, Giustino. This is death." - -"No, it's not death, Anna." - -"You talk like Cesare Dias," she cried, moving away from him. "You -speak like a sceptic who has neither love nor faith. You are like -him--corrupt, cynical----" - -"You insult me; but you're right." - -"I am dishonoured: do you realise that? I am a fugitive from my -people; I am alone here with you in an hotel. I am dishonoured, -dishonoured, coward that you are. You can go home quietly, having had -an amusing adventure; but I--I have no home any more. I was a good -girl; now I am lost." - -"Your people know where you are and what you have done--that you have -done nothing wrong. They know that you have done it in response to -a generous impulse for one who was not worthy of you, but who has -respected you." - -"And who told them?" - -"I." - -"When?" - -"This morning." - -"To whom did you tell it?" - -"To your sister and your guardian." - -"Did they come to ask you?" - -"No, I went to them." - -"And what did you agree upon amongst you?" - -"That I should come here and meet you." - -"And then?" - -"That I should leave you." - -"When?" - -"When Cesare Dias was ready to come and fetch you." - -"It's a beautiful plan," she said, icily. "The plan of calm, -practical men. Bravo, bravo! You--you ran to my people, to exculpate -yourself, to accuse me, to reassure them. Good, good! I am a mad -child, guilty of a youthful escapade, which fortunately hasn't -touched my reputation. You denounced me, told them that I wanted to -elope with you; and you are a gentleman! Good! The whole thing was -wonderfully well combined. I am to return home with Cesare Dias as -if I had made a harmless little excursion, and what's done is done. -You're right, of course; Cesare Dias is right; Laura Acquaviva, who -has never loved and who despises those who love, Laura is right; -you are all right. I alone am wrong. Oh, the laughable adventure! -To attempt an elopement, and to fail in it, because the man won't -elope. To return home because your lover has denounced you to your -family! What a comedy! You are right. There has been no catastrophe. -The solution is immensely humorous: I know it. I am like a suicide -who didn't kill herself. You are right. I am wrong. You--you----" -And she looked him full in the face, withering him with her glance. -"Begone! I despise you. Begone!" - -"Anna, Anna, don't send me away like this." - -"Begone! The cowardly way in which you have behaved is past contempt. -Begone!" - -"We mustn't part like this." - -"We are already parted, utterly separated. We have always been -separated. Go away." - -"Anna, what I have done I have done for your sake, for your good. -Now you send me away. Afterwards you will do me justice. I am an -honourable man--that is my sin." - -"I don't know you. Good-day." - -"But what will you do alone here?" - -"That doesn't concern you. Good-day." - -"Let me wait for Cesare Dias." - -"If you don't go at once I'll open the window and throw myself from -the balcony," she said, with so much firmness that he believed her. - -"Good-bye, then." - -"Good-bye." - -She stood in the middle of the room, a small red spot burning in -each of her cheeks, and watched him go out, heard him descend the -staircase, slowly, with the heavy step of one bearing a great -burden. She leaned from the window and saw the shadow of a man issue -from the door of the inn--it was Giustino. He stood still for a -moment, and then turned into the high road that leads to Pompeii from -Torre Annunziata, and again stood still, as if to wait for somebody -there. Anna saw him turn towards the windows of the hotel, and gaze -up at them earnestly. At last he moved slowly away and disappeared. - -Anna came back into the room, and threw herself upon the sofa, biting -its cushions to keep herself from screaming. Her head was on fire, -but she couldn't weep--not a tear, not a single tear. - -And in the midst of her trouble, constantly--whether, as at one -moment, she was pitying herself as a poor child to whom a monstrous -wrong had been done, or as, at the next, burning with scorn as a -great lady offended in her pride; or again, blushing with shame as -she thought of the imminent arrival of Cesare Dias--in the midst of -it all, through it all, constantly, one little agonising, implacable -phrase kept repeating itself: "All is over, all is over, all is over!" - -Presently a servant brought in a light. - -"Please, madam, do you mean to stay the night?" he asked. - -"No." - -"The last train for Naples has already left. You can go back by way -of Torre Annunziata in a carriage." - -"Some one is coming for me," she said. - -The servant left the room. - -By-and-by she heard her name called: "Anna! Anna!" - -She fell on her knees before Cesare Dias, sobbing: "Forgive me, -forgive me." - -He, with a tremor in his voice, murmured, "My poor child." - -And at home, in her own house, she said to her sister: "Laura, -forgive me." - -"My poor Anna." - - - - - III. - -For three weeks Anna lay at the point of death, prey to a violent -attack of scarlet fever, alternating between delirium and stupor, and -always moaning in her pain; while Laura, Stella Martini, and a Sister -of Charity watched at her bedside. - -But she did not die. The fever reached its crisis, and then, little -by little, day by day, abated. - -At last her struggle with death was finished, but Anna had lost in -it the best part of her youth. Thus a valorous warrior survives the -battle indeed, but returns to his friends the phantom of himself--an -object of pity to those who saw him set forth, strong and gallant. - -When the early Neapolitan spring began to show itself, at the end of -February, she was convalescent, but so weak that she could scarcely -support the weight of her thick black hair. Stella Martini tried very -patiently to comb it so gently that Anna should not have to move, -braiding it in two long plaits; in this way it would seem less heavy. -From time to time a big tear would roll down the invalid's cheek. - -She was weeping silently, slowly; and when Laura or Stella Martini, -or Sister Crocifissa would ask her: "What is it; what can we do for -you?" Anna would answer with a sign which seemed to say: "Let me -weep; perhaps it will do me good to weep." - -"Let her weep, it will do her good to weep," was what the great -doctor Antonio Amati had said also. "Let her do whatever pleases her; -refuse her nothing if you can help it." - -So her nurses, obedient to the doctor, did not try to prevent her -weeping, did not even try to speak comforting words to her. Perhaps -it was not so much an active sorrow that made her shed these tears, -as a sort of sad relief. - -Cesare Dias during this anxious time put aside his occupations of -a gay bachelor, and called two or three times a day at the palace -in Piazza Gerolomini to inquire how Anna was. The two girls had no -nearer relative than he; and he, indeed, was not a relative: he was -their guardian, an old friend of their father's, a companion of the -youthful sports of Francesco Acquaviva. The young wife of Francesco -had died five years after the birth of her second daughter, Laura, -who resembled her closely: and thereupon her husband had proceeded to -shorten his own life by throwing himself into every form of worldly -dissipation. The two children, growing up in the house, motherless -in the midst of profuse luxury, could exert no restraining influence -upon their father, who seemed bent upon enjoying every minute of his -existence as if he realised that its end was near. His constant -companion was the cold, calm, sceptical Cesare Dias, a man who -appeared to despise the very pleasures it was his one business to -pursue. And when Francesco Acquaviva fell ill, and was about to die, -he could think of nothing better than to make the partner of his -follies the guardian of his children. - -Cesare Dias had discharged his duties, not without some secret -annoyance, with a gentlemanlike correctness; never treating his wards -with much familiarity, rarely showing himself in public with them, -keeping them at a distance, indeed, and feeling very little interest -in them. He was their guardian--he, a man who, of all things, had -least desired to have a family, who spent the whole of his income -upon himself, who hated sentiment, who had no ideal of friendship. -Cesare Dias, a man without tenderness, without affection, without -sympathy, was the guardian of two young girls. He was this by the -freak of Francesco Acquaviva. Dias would be glad enough when the day -came for the girls to marry. When people congratulated him upon his -situation as a rich bachelor with no obligations, he responded with a -somewhat sarcastic smile: "Pity me rather; I've got two children--a -legacy from Francesco Acquaviva." - -"Oh, they'll soon be married." - -"I hope so," he murmured devoutly. - -As he watched the girls grow up, the character of Laura, haughty, -and reserved, and silent, as if she had already known a thousand -disillusions, began vaguely to please him, as if he saw obscurely -in a looking-glass a face that distantly resembled his own: -a faint admiration which was really but reflex admiration of -himself. The character of Anna, on the contrary, open, loyal, -impressionable and impulsive, a character full of strong likes and -dislikes--imaginative, enthusiastic, generous--had always roused in -him a certain antipathy. - -In her presence he seemed even colder and more indifferent than -elsewhere; merciless for all human weakness, disdainful of all human -interests. - -It would have been a miracle if two such incompatible natures, each -so positive, had not repelled each other. Sometimes, though, Anna -could not help feeling a certain secret respect for this man, who -perhaps had good reasons--reasons born of suffering--for the contempt -with which he regarded his fellow-beings; and sometimes Dias told -himself that it was ridiculous to be angry with this strange child, -for she was a worthy daughter of Francesco Acquaviva, a man who -had tossed his life to the winds of pleasure. Dias asked himself -scornfully, "What does it matter?" - -And so, when he learned that his ward had fallen in love with an -obscure and penniless youth, he shrugged his shoulders, murmuring, -"Rhetoric!" He deemed it wiser not to speak to her about the matter, -for he knew that the flame of love is only fanned by the wind of -contradiction; besides, it is always useless to talk sensibly to a -silly girl. - -When Giustino Morelli had called upon him and humbly asked for Anna's -hand, Dias opposed to the ingenuous eloquence of love the cynical -philosophy of the world, and thought his trouble ended when he saw -the young man go away, pale and resigned. "Rhetoric, rhetoric!" -was his mental commentary; and he had a theory that what he called -rhetoric could be trusted to die a natural death. So he went back to -his usual occupation, giving the affair no further thought. - -But chemical analysis cannot explain spontaneous generation; -criticism cannot explain genius; and no more can cold reason explain -or understand youthful passion. - -When it came to the knowledge of Cesare Dias that Anna had left -her home to give herself into the keeping of a poor nobody, he was -for a moment stupefied; he seemed for a moment to have a vision of -that force whose existence he had hitherto doubted, which can lift -hearts up to dizzy heights, and human beings far above convention. He -was a man of few words, a man of action, but now he was staggered, -nonplussed. A child who could play her reputation and her future -like this, inspired him with a sort of vague respect, a respect for -the power that moved her. Ah, there was a convulsion in the soul of -Cesare Dias, the man of fixed ideas and easy aphorisms, who suddenly -found himself face to face with a moral crisis in which the life of -his young ward might be wrecked. And he felt a pang of self-reproach. -He ought to have watched more carefully over her; he ought to have -been kinder to her; he ought not to have left her to walk unguided -in the dangerous path of youth and love. - -He felt a certain pity for the poor weak creature, who had gone, -as it were, headlong over a precipice without calling for help. -He thought that, if she had been his own daughter, he would have -endeavoured to cultivate her common sense, to show her that it was -impossible for people to live constantly at concert pitch. He had, -therefore, failed in his duty towards her, in his office of protector -and friend; and yet what faith her dead father, Francesco Acquaviva, -had had in him, in his wisdom, in his affection! Anna, who had -hitherto inspired him only with that disdain which practical men feel -for sentimentalists, now moved him to compassion, as a defenceless -being exposed to all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. -And during his drive from Naples to Pompeii he promised himself that -he would be very kind to her, very gentle. If she had flown from her -home, it was doubtless because the love that Giustino Morelli bore -her had appeared greater to her than the love of her own people; -and doubtless, too, there are hearts to whom love is as necessary -as bread is to the body. Never before had Cesare Dias felt such an -emotion as beset him now during that long drive to Pompeii; for years -he had been on his guard against such emotions. - -And, accordingly, after that fatal day on which he brought her back -to her house, he and Laura and Stella Martini all tried to create -round Anna a peaceful atmosphere of kindness and indulgence, as if -she had committed a grave but generous error, by whose consequences -she alone was hurt. Laura--silent, thoughtful, with her dreamy grey -eyes, her placid face--nursed Anna through her fever with quiet -sisterly devotion. Cesare Dias called every morning, entering the -room on tiptoe, inquiring with a glance how the sufferer was doing, -then seating himself at a distance from the bed, without speaking. If -Anna looked up, if he felt her big sorrowful black eyes turned upon -his face, he would ask in a gentle voice, the voice of _that day_, -how she felt; she would answer with a faint smile, "Better," and -would shut her eyes again, and go back to her interior contemplations. - -Cesare Dias, after that, would get up noiselessly and go away, to -come again in the afternoon, and still again in the evening, perhaps -for a longer visit. - -Laura, always dressed in white, would meet him in the sitting-room; -and he would ask, "Is she better?" - -"She seems to be." - -"Has she been asleep to-day?" - -"No, I don't think she has been asleep." - -"Has she said anything." - -"Not a word." - -"Who is to watch with her to-night." - -"I." - -"You will wear yourself out." - -"No, no." - -Nothing else passed between them. - -Often he would arrive in the evening wearing his dress-suit; he had -dined at his club, and was off for a card-party or a first night at -a theatre. Then he would remain standing, with his overcoat open, -his hat in his hand. At such a time, a little warmed up by the -dinner he had eaten, or the amusements that awaited him, Cesare Dias -was still a handsome man; his dull eyes shone with some of their -forgotten brightness; his cheeks had a little colour in them; and his -smooth black hair gave him almost an appearance of youth. One who -had seen him in the morning, pale and exhausted, would scarcely have -recognised him. Laura would meet him and part with him, never asking -whence he came or whither he was bound; when he had said good-night -she would return to Anna, slowly, with her light footsteps that -merely brushed the carpet. - -Cesare Dias told himself that if he wished to make his sick ward over -morally, now was the time to begin, while her body was weak and her -soul malleable. It would be impossible to transform her spirit after -she had once got back her strength. Anna was completely prostrated, -passing the entire day without moving, her arms stretched out at full -length, her hands pale and cold, her face turned on the side, her -two rich plaits of black hair extended on her pillow; bloodless her -cheeks, her lips, her brow; lifeless the glance of her eyes. When -spoken to, she answered with a slight movement of the head, or, at -most, one or two words--always the same. - -"How do you feel?" - -"Better." - -"Do you wish for anything?" - -"Nothing." - -"Is there nothing you would like?" - -"No, thanks." - -Whereupon she would close her eyes again, exhausted. Nothing more -would be said by those round her, but Anna knew that they were there, -silent, talking together by means of significant glances. - -One day, Cesare Dias and Laura Acquaviva felt that they could mark a -progress in Anna's convalescence, because two or three times she had -looked at them with an expression of such earnest penitence, with -such an eager prayer for pardon, in her sad dark eyes, that words -were not necessary to tell what she felt. Soon afterwards she seemed -to wish to be left alone with Dias, as if she had a secret to confide -to him; but he cautiously thought it best to defer any private talk. -However, one morning it so happened that he found himself alone in -her room. He was reading a newspaper when a soft voice said: - -"Listen." - -Cesare Dias looked at her. Her black eyes were again beseeching -forgiveness, and Anna stammered: - -"What must you have thought--what must you have said of me!" - -"You must not excite yourself, my dear," he said kindly. - -"I was so wicked," she sobbed. - -"Don't talk like that, dear Anna; you were guilty of nothing more -than a girlish folly." - -"A sin, a sin." - -"You must call things by their right names, and not let your -imagination get the better of you," he answered, somewhat coldly. "A -youthful folly." - -"Well, be it as you wish," she said, humbly; "but if you knew----" - -"There, there," murmured Cesare Dias with the shadow of a smile, -"calm yourself; we'll speak of this another day." - -Laura had come back into the room, and her presence cut short their -talk. - -That evening, by the faint light of a little lamp that hung before -an image of the Virgin at her bedside, Anna saw the big grey eyes of -Laura gazing at her inquiringly; and therewith she raised herself a -little on her pillow and called her sister to her. - -"You are good; you don't know----" - -"You mustn't excite yourself." - -"You are innocent, Laura, but you are my sister. Don't judge me -harshly." - -"I don't judge you, Anna." - -"Laura, Laura----" - -"Be quiet, Anna." - -Laura's tone was a little hard, but with her hand she gently caressed -her sister's cheek; and Anna said nothing more. - -As her recovery progressed, an expression of humility, of -contrition, seemed to become more and more constant upon her face -when she had to do with Laura or with Dias. - -They were very kind to her, with that pitying kindness which we show -to invalids, to old people, and to children--a kindness in marked -contrast to their former indifference, which awoke in her an ever -sharper and sharper remorse. She felt a great difference between -herself and them: they were sane in body and mind, their blood flowed -tranquilly in their veins, their consciences were untroubled; while -she was broken in health, disturbed in spirit, and miserable in -thinking of her past, its deceits, its errors, its thousand shameful -aberrations, its lack of maidenly decorum--and for whom? for whom? -For a fool, a simpleton, a fellow who had neither heart nor courage, -who had never loved her, who was cruel and inept. When she drew a -mental comparison between Giustino Morelli and these two persons -whom she had wished to desert for him--between Giustino, so timid, -so poor in all right feeling, so bankrupt in passion, and them, so -magnanimous, so forgetful of her fault--her repentance grew apace. -It was the exaggerated repentance of a noble nature, which magnifies -the moral gravity of its own transgressions. She felt herself to -be quite undeserving of the sympathy and affection with which they -treated her. Their kindness was an act of gratuitous charity beyond -her merits. - -She would look from Laura to Cesare Dias and murmur: "You are good; -you are good." And then at the sound of her own voice she would be -so moved that she would weep; and pale, with great dark circles under -her eyes, she would repeat, "So good, so good." - -Her sole desire was to show herself absolutely obedient to whatever -her guardian demanded, to whatever her sister advised. - -She gave herself over, bound hand and foot, to these two beings whom -she had so cruelly forgotten on the day of her mad adventure; in her -convalescence she found a great joy in throwing herself absolutely -upon their wisdom and their goodness. - -Little by little it seemed to her that she was being born again to -a new life, quiet, placid, irresponsible; a life in which she would -have no will of her own, in which, passively, gladly, she would -be guided and controlled by them. So, whenever they spoke to her, -whenever they asked for her opinion--whether a window should be -opened or closed, whether a bouquet of flowers should be left in the -room or carried out, whether a note should be written to a friend who -had called to inquire how she was--she always said, "Yes," or "As you -think best," emphasising her answer with a gesture and a glance. - -"Yes" to whatever Cesare Dias suggested to her; Cesare Dias who had -grown in her imagination to the proportions of a superior being, far -removed from human littleness, invincible, dwelling in the highest -spheres of abstract intellect; and "Yes" to whatever Laura Acquaviva -suggested, Laura the pure, the impeccable, who had never had the -weakness to fall in love, who would die rather than be wanting to -her ideal of herself. "Yes" even to whatever her poor governess, -Stella Martini, suggested; Stella so kind, so faithful, whom in the -past she had so heartlessly deceived. "Yes" to the good Sister of -Charity, Maria del Crocifisso, who passed her life in self-sacrifice, -in self-abnegation, in loving devotion to others. "Yes" to everybody. -Anna said nothing but "Yes," because she had been wrong, and they had -all been right. - -She was getting well. Nothing remained of her illness except a mortal -weakness, a heaviness of the head, an inability to concentrate her -mind upon one idea, a desire to rest where she was, not to move from -her bed, from her room, not to lift her hands, to keep her eyes -closed, her cheek buried in her pillow. Cesare Dias called daily -after luncheon, at two o'clock, an hour when men of the world have -absolutely nothing to do, for visits are not in order till four. -The girls waited for him every afternoon; Laura with her appearance -of being above all earthly trifles, showing neither curiosity nor -eagerness; Anna with a secret anxiety because he would bring her -a sense of calmness and strength, a breath of the world's air, -and especially because he seemed so firm, so imperturbable, that -she found it restorative merely to look at him, as weaklings find -restorative the sight of those who are robust. He would chat a -little, giving the latest gossip, telling where last night's ball -had been held, who had gone upon a journey, who had got married, but -always with that tone of disdain, that tone of the superior being -who sees but is not moved, and yet who seeks to conceal his boredom, -which was characteristic of him. - -Sometimes, though, he would laugh outright at the society he moved -in, at its pleasures, at its people, burlesquing and caricaturing -them, and ridiculing himself for being led by them. - -"Oh, you!" cried Anna, with an indescribable intonation of respect. - -She listened eagerly to everything he said. Her fragile soul was -like a butterfly that lights on every tiniest flower. These elegant -and meaningless frivolities, these experiences without depth or -significance, these axioms of a social code that turned appearances -into idols, all this worthless baggage delighted her enfeebled -imagination. Her heart seemed to care for nothing but little things. -She admired Cesare Dias as a splendid and austere man whom destiny -had thrown amidst inferior surroundings, and who adapted himself to -them without losing any of his nobler qualities. She told herself -that his was a great soul that had been born too soon, perhaps too -late; he was immeasurably above his times, yet with quiet fortitude -he took them in good part. When he displayed his scorn for all human -ambitions, speaking of how transitory everything pertaining to -this world is in its nature; when he derided human folly and human -beings who in the pursuit of follies lose their fortunes and their -reputations; when he said that the only human thing deserving of -respect was success; when he said that all generosity was born of -some secret motive of selfishness, that all virtue was the result -of some weakness of character or of temperament--she, immensely -impressed, having forgotten during her fever the emotional reasons -to be opposed to such effete and corrupt theories, bowed her head, -answering sadly, "You are right." - -Now that she was able to sit up they were often alone together. Laura -would leave them to go and read in the sitting-room, or to receive -callers in the drawing-room, or to walk out with Stella Martini. She -could always find some pretext for taking herself off. She was a -reserved, silent girl, who knew neither how to live nor how to love -as others did. It was best to leave her to her taste for silence, for -self-absorption. Cesare Dias, a little anxious about her, asked Anna: - -"What is the matter with Laura?" - -"She is good--she is the best girl alive," Anna answered, with the -feeling she always showed when she named her sister. - -Cesare Dias looked at her fixedly. He looked at her like this -whenever her voice betrayed emotion. It seemed to him that it was -her old nature revealing itself again; he wished to stamp it out, -to suffocate it. Her heart was defenceless, too impressionable, the -heart of a child: he wished to turn it into a heart of bronze, which -would be unaffected by the breath of passion. Always, therefore, -when Anna allowed her soul to vibrate in her voice, Cesare Dias, -naturally serious and composed enough, seemed to become more serious, -more austere; his eye hardened into glass, and Anna felt that she had -displeased him. She knew that she displeased him as often as anything -in her manner could recall that wild adventure which had sullied the -innocence of her girlhood: as often as she gave any sign of being -deeply moved: if she turned pale, if she bowed her head, if she wept. -Cesare Dias hated all such manifestations of sentimental weakness. -Sometimes, when Anna could no longer control herself, and her emotion -could not be prevented from shining in her eyes, he would pretend not -to notice it. Sometimes he would demand, "What is the matter?" - -"Nothing," said she, timidly conscious that by her timidity she but -displeased him the more. - -"Always the same--incorrigible," he murmured, shaking his head -hopelessly. - -"Forgive me; I can't help it," she besought him with an imploring -glance. - -"You shouldn't say of anything that you can't help it. You should be -strong enough to govern yourself in all circumstances," was the axiom -of Cesare Dias. - -"I will try." - -One day in April, Stella Martini, coming home from a walk with -Laura, brought her some flowers--some beautiful wild rosebuds, -which in Naples blossom so early in the year. Anna was seated in an -easy-chair near the window, through which entered the soft spring -air; and when she saw Laura and Stella come into the house--Laura -dressed in white, breathing peace and youth from every line of -her figure--Stella with her face that seemed to have been scalded -and shrivelled up by tears shed long ago, both bearing great -quantities of fresh sweet roses, the poor girl's heart swelled with -indescribable tenderness. - -Holding the roses in her hand, she caressed them, touched them with -her face, buried her lips in them, and said under her voice: "Thank -you, thank you," as if in her weakness she could find no other words -to express her pleasure. - -Cesare Dias, arriving a little later, found her in rapt contemplation -over her flowers, her great fond eyes glowing with joy. A shadow -crossed his face. - -"See, they have brought me these flowers," she said. "Aren't they -lovely?" - -"I see them," he said, drily. - -"Aren't you fond of flowers? They're so fresh and fragrant. I hope -you're fond of them; I adore them." - -And in the fervour of her last phrase she closed her eyes. - -It occurred to him that she had doubtless not so very long ago -spoken the same words of a man; and he realised that, in spite of -her illness, in spite of her repentance, she was ever the same Anna -Acquaviva who had once flown from her home and people. He lifted his -eyebrows, and his ebony walking-stick beat rather nervously against -his chair. - -"Would you like a rose?" she asked, to placate him. - -"No." - -"Why not?" - -"Because I don't care for flowers." - -"What! Not even to wear in your button-hole when you go into -society?" she asked, trying to jest. - -"They're not _de rigueur_. Flowers are pretty enough in their way; -but I assure you I have never had the weakness to weep over them, or -to say that I adore them." - -"I was wrong, I said too much." - -"You always say too much. You lack a sense of proportion. There are a -great many things a girl shouldn't say, lest, if she begins by saying -them, she should end by doing them, The woman who says too much is -lost." - -Anna turned as white as the collar of her frock. It had come at last, -the reproof she had so long been waiting for, and secretly dreading. -He had put it in a single brief sentence. The woman who says too much -is lost. Once upon a time, six months ago for instance, she would -have endured such a reproof from no one, such a bitter reference to -her past; she would have retorted hotly, especially if the speaker -had been Cesare Dias. But now! So weakened was she by her illness and -her sorrow, there was not a fibre in her that resented it; her blood -slept in her veins; her heart contained nothing but penitence. "The -woman who says too much is lost!" Cesare Dias was right. - -"It is true," she said. - -And yet, as she said it, a new grief was born within her, as if she -had renounced some precious possession of her soul, broken some holy -vow. - -Cesare's face cleared. He had won a victory. - -"Anna," he went on, "every time that you allow yourself to be carried -away by sentimentalism, that you employ exaggerated expressions, -that you indulge in emotional rhetoric, I assure you, you displease -me greatly. How ridiculous if life were to be passed in saying of -people, houses, landscapes, flowers, 'I adore them!' Don't you see -what a convulsive, hysterical frame of mind that is? As if life were -nothing but a smile, a tear, a kiss! Do you know to what this sort of -thing inevitably leads? You know----" - -"Spare me, I entreat you." - -"I can't, dear. First you must agree with me that your attitude -towards life, though a generous one if you like, is not a wise one, -and that it leads to the gravest errors. Am I right?" - -"You are right." - -"You must agree with me that that sort of thing can only make -ourselves and others miserable, whereas our duty is to be as happy -and to make others as happy as we can. Everything else is rhetoric. -Am I right?" - -"You are right. You are always right." - -"Finally, you must agree that it is better to be reasonable than to -be sentimental; better to be arid than to be rhetorical, better to be -silent than to speak out everything that is in one's heart; better -to be strong than to be weak. Am I not right?" - -"You are right, always right." - -"Anna, do you know what life is?" - -"No, I don't know what it really is." - -"Life is a thing which is serious and absurd at the same time." - -She made no answer; she was silent and pensive. - -"It is serious because it is the only thing we know anything about; -because every man and every woman, in whatever rank or condition, is -bound to be honest, well-behaved, worthy and proper; because if one -is rich and noble it is one's duty to be moral in a given way; if one -is poor and humble, it is one's duty to be moral in another way." - -He saw that she was listening to him eagerly; he saw that he might -hazard a great stroke. - -"Giustino Morelli----" he began softly. - -"No!" she cried, pressing her hands to her temples, her face -convulsed with terror. - -"Giustino Morelli----" he repeated calmly. - -"For Heaven's sake, don't speak of him." - -Cesare Dias appeared neither to see nor hear her. He wished to go to -the bottom of the matter, courageously, pitilessly. - -"--was a serious person, an honest man," he concluded. - -"He was an infamous traitor," said Anna, in a low voice, as if -speaking to herself. - -"Anna, he was an honest man. You ought to believe it. You will -believe it." - -"Never, never." - -"Yes, you will. You ought to do him justice. I, who am a man, I must -do him justice. He might have issued from his obscurity; he might -have had money, a beautiful wife, a wife whom he loved, for he loved -you----" - -"No, no." - -"Everybody loves in his own way, my dear," retorted Cesare, -icily. "He loved you. But because he did not wish to be thought -self-interested, because he did not wish the world to say of him -that he had loved you for your money, because he did not wish to -hear you, Anna, some day say the same thing; because he could not -endure the accusation of having seduced a young girl for her fortune; -because he was not willing to let you suffer, as for some years, at -any rate, you would have had to suffer, from poverty and obscurity, -he renounced you. Do you understand? He renounced you because he was -honest. He renounced you, though in doing so he had to face your -anger and your scorn. My dear, that man was a martyr to duty, to use -one of your own phrases. Will you allow me to say something which may -appear ungracious, but which is really friendly?" - -Anna consented with a sign. - -"Well, you have no just notion of the seriousness of life. All -its responsibilities can be scattered by a caprice, by a passion, -to quote what you yourself have said. You would brush aside all -obstacles; and you would run the risk of losing all respect, all -honour, all peace, all health, thereby. Life, Anna, is a very serious -affair." - -With a bowed head, she could only answer by a gesture, a gesture that -said "Yes." - -"And, at the same time, it's a trifling matter, Anna." - -It was the corrupt, effete nobleman who now re-appeared, the _viveur_ -who had drunk at every fountain, who was always bored and always -curious; it was he who now took the place of the moral teacher. Anna -looked up, surprised and shocked. - -"Life is absurd, ridiculous, contemptible. The world is full of cruel -parents, of false friends, of wives who betray their husbands, of -husbands who maltreat their wives, of well-dressed swindlers, of -thieving bankers. All of them in turn are judges and criminals. All -appearances are deceitful; all faces lie. If by chance there turns up -a man who seems really honest, nobody believes in him; or, if people -believe in him, they despise him. The man who sacrifices himself, -who makes some great renunciation--poor Morelli--gets nothing but -disdain." - -"But--if all this is true?" cried Anna sadly. - -"Then, one must have the strength to keep one's own real feelings -hidden; one must wear a mask; one must take other men and women at -their proper value; one must march straight forward." - -"Whether happy or miserable?" - -She put this question with great anxiety, for she felt that when it -was answered her soul's point of interrogation would be changed to a -full stop. - -"The strong are happy; the weak are miserable. Only the strong can -triumph." - -She was silent, oppressed and pained by his philosophy, by its -bitterness, its sterile pride, its egotism and cruelty. It seemed as -if he had built a sepulchre from the ruins of her illusions. She felt -that she no longer understood either her own nature or the external -world; a sense of fear and of confusion had taken the place of her -old principles and aspirations. And there was a great home-sickness -in her heart for love, for devotion, for tenderness, for enthusiasm; -a great melancholy at the thought that she would never thrill with -them again, that she would never weep again. She felt a great -indefinable longing, not for the past, not for the present, not -for the future, a longing that related itself to nothing. And -she realised that what Cesare Dias had said was true--horribly, -dreadfully, certainly true. She could be sure of nothing after this, -she had lost her pole-star, she was being swept round and round in a -spiritual whirlpool. And he who had led her into it inspired her with -fear, respect, and a vague admiration. He himself had got beyond the -whirlpool, he was safe in port. Perhaps, in despair, he had thrown -overboard into the furious waves the most precious part of his cargo; -perhaps he was little better than a wreck; but what did it matter? He -was safe in harbour. - -She was not sure whether it was better to brave out the tempest, to -lose everything nobly and generously for the sake of love, or to -save appearances, make for still waters, and in them enjoy a selfish -tranquillity. - -"You are strong?" she said. - -"Yes," he assented. - -"And are you happy--really?" - -"Very happy. As happy as one can be." - -By-and-by she asked: "Have you always been happy?" - -Cesare Dias did not answer. - -"Tell me, tell me, have you always been happy?" - -"What does the past matter? Nothing." - -"And--have you ever loved?" - -"The person who says too much is lost; the person who wants to know -too much suffers. Don't ask." - -She chose a rose and offered it to him. He took it and put it into -his button-hole. - -At that instant Laura Acquaviva entered the room. - - - - - IV. - -At the opening of the San Carlo theatre on Christmas night the opera -was "The Huguenots." - -A first night at the San Carlo is always an event for the Neapolitan -public, no matter what opera, old or new, is given; but when the work -happens to be a favourite the excitement becomes tremendous. - -The two thousand persons, male and female, who constitute society -in that town of half a million inhabitants, go about for a week -beforehand, from house to house, from café to café, predicting that -the evening will be a success. The chief rôles in "The Huguenots" -were to be taken by De Giuli Borsi and Roberto Stagno, rôles in which -the public was to hear these artists for the first time, though they -were already known to everybody, either by reputation or from having -been heard in other operas. - -So, on that Christmas Day, the two thousand members of Neapolitan -society put aside their usual occupations and arranged their time -in such wise as to be ready promptly at eight o'clock, the men in -their dress-suits, the women in rich and beautiful evening toilets. -Everybody gave up something--a walk, a call, a luncheon, a nap--for -the sake of getting betimes to the theatre. - -By half-past seven the approaches to San Carlo, its portico, its big -and little entrances, all brilliantly lighted by gas, were swarming -like an ant-hill with eager people. Some came on foot, the collars of -their overcoats turned up, showing freshly shaven faces under their -tall silk opera-hats, or freshly waxed moustaches and beards newly -pointed; others came in cabs; and before the central door, under the -portico, which was draped with flags, passed a constant stream of -private carriages, depositing ladies muffled in opera-cloaks of red -velvet or white embroidery. - -By a quarter past eight the house was full. - -Anna and Laura Acquaviva, dressed in white silk, and accompanied by -Stella Martini, occupied Box No. 19 of the second tier. - -Cesare Dias had a place in Box No. 4 of the first tier. - -Anna kept her eyes fixed upon him. He glanced up at her, but did not -bow. He only turned and spoke a few words to the young man next to -him, who thereupon aimed his opera-glass, at the girls' box; he was -a young gentleman of medium height, with a blonde beard, and blonde -hair brushed straight back from his forehead. His brown eyes had an -expression of great kindness. - -Anna kept her gaze fixed upon Cesare Dias; if now and then she -turned it towards the stage it would only be for a brief moment. - -"That is Luigi Caracciolo," said Laura. - -"Who?" asked Anna. - -"Luigi Caracciolo, the man next to Dias." - -"Ah." - -And again, Anna turned her face towards Box No. 4, where Cesare Dias -sat with Luigi Caracciolo. The rest of the theatre hung round her -in a sort of coloured mist; the only thing she clearly saw was the -narrow space where those two men sat together. - -Did they feel the magnetism of her gaze? - -Cesare Dias, leaning forward, with his arm on the red velvet of the -railing, was listening to the music of Meyerbeer; now and then he -cast an absent-minded glance round the audience, the glance of a man -who knows beforehand that he will find the usual people in the usual -places. - -Luigi Caracciolo appeared to give little heed to the music. He was -pulling his blonde beard, and studying the ladies in the house -through his opera-glass, while a slight smile played upon his -lips. Presently he fixed his glass on Anna's box. Had he felt that -magnetism? At any rate, he kept his glass fixed upon Anna's box. - -The curtain fell on the first act. - -Cesare Dias spoke a word or two to Luigi, and the two men rose and -left their places. - -Suddenly it seemed to Anna as if all the lights in the theatre had -been put out. - -"Stagno sang divinely," said Stella Martini. - -"Yes," responded Laura. "But didn't it strike you that he rather -exaggerated?" - -"No, I can't say it did." - -Anna did not hear; her eyes were closed. - -There was a rumour in the house of moving people; there was a sound -of opening and closing doors. Fans fluttered, men changed their -seats, people went and came, many of the stalls were empty. The round -of visits had begun. Husbands and brothers left their boxes to make -place for other men beside their wives and sisters; to pay their -respects to other men's wives and sisters. There was a babble of many -voices idly chatting. It began in the first and second tiers, and -it rose to the galleries, the stronghold of students, workmen, and -clerks. - -Anna gazed sadly at that deserted box below her. - -All at once she heard Laura say, "Luigi Caracciolo and Cesare Dias -are with the Contessa d'Alemagna." - -Anna turned round, and raised her opera-glass. - -They were there indeed, visiting the beautiful Countess; Anna could -see the pale and noble face of Cesare Dias, the youthful face of -Caracciolo. The Contessa d'Alemagna was an Austrian, very clever, -very witty. She wore a costume of red silk, and kept waving a fan of -red feathers, as she talked vivaciously with the two men. She must -have been saying something extremely interesting, to judge by the -close attention with which they listened to her and by the smiles -with which they responded. - -When Anna put down her opera-glass, her face had become deathly pale. - -"Are you feeling ill?" asked Stella Martini. - -"No," the child replied, paler than ever. - -"Perhaps it's too hot here for you. Shall I open the door of the -box?" suggested the governess. - -"Laura, will you change seats with me?" said Anna. - -Laura took Anna's place, and Anna retired to the back of the box, -where she closed her eyes. - -"Do you feel better, dear?" - -"Thanks. Much better. It was the heat." - -And she made as if to return to the front of the box, but Stella -detained her, fearing that the heat there might again disturb her. So -Anna stopped where she was, breathing the fresh air that came through -the open door. - -"Do you like 'The Huguenots,' Stella?" she asked, for the sake of -saying something, in the hope, perhaps, of thus forgetting her desire -to see what was going on in the box of the Contessa d'Alemagna. - -"Very much. And you?" - -"I like it immensely." - -"I am afraid--I am afraid that later on you may find it too exciting. -You know the fourth act is very terrible. Don't you dread the -impression it may make upon you?" - -"It won't matter, Stella," she said, with a faint smile. - -"Perhaps you would like to go home before the fourth act begins. If -you feel nervous about it----" - -"I am not nervous," she murmured, as if speaking to herself. "Or, if -I am, I'd rather suffer this way than otherwise." - -"We were wrong to come," said Stella, shaking her head. - -"No, no, Stella. Let us stay. I am all right; I am enjoying it. Don't -take me home yet." - -And she went back to the front of the box, to the seat next to -Laura's. - -"Cesare Dias and Luigi Caracciolo have left the Contessa d'Alemagna," -said Laura. - -"Already?" - -"Perhaps they will come here," suggested Stella Martini. - -"I don't think so. There won't be time," said Laura. - -"There won't be time," assented Anna. - -The house had become silent again, in anticipation of the second act. -Here and there some one who had delayed too long in a box where he -was visiting, would say good-bye quietly, and return to his place. -A few such visitors, better acquainted with their hosts, remained -seated, determined not to move. Among the latter were, of course, the -lovers of the ladies, the intimate friends of the husbands. - -From her present station Anna Acquaviva could not look so directly -down upon Box No. 4 of the first tier as from her former; she had to -turn round a little in order to see it, and thus her interest in -it was made manifest. Cesare Dias and Luigi Caracciolo, after their -visit to the Contessa d'Alemagna, had taken a turn in the corridor -to smoke a cigarette, and had then returned to their places. Anna, -the creature of her hopes and her desires, could not resist the -temptation to gaze steadily at her guardian, though she felt that -thereby she was drawing upon herself the attention of all observers, -and exposing her deepest feelings to ridicule and misconstruction. - -And now the divine music of Meyerbeer surged up and filled the hall, -and Anna was conscious of nothing else--of nothing but the music and -the face of Cesare Dias shining through it, like a star through the -mist. How much time passed? She did not know. Twice her sister spoke -to her; she neither heard nor answered. - -When the curtain fell again, and Anna issued from her trance, Laura -said, "There is Giustino Morelli." - -"Ah!" cried Anna, unable to control a contraction of her features. - -But she had self-constraint enough not to ask "_where?_" Falling -suddenly from a heaven of rapture to the hard reality of her life, -where traces of her old folly still lingered; hating her past, and -wishing to obliterate it from her memory, as the motives for it were -already obliterated from her heart, she did not ask where he was. She -covered her face with her fan, and two big tears rolled slowly down -her cheeks. - -Stella Martini looked at her, desiring to speak, but fearing lest -thereby she might only make matters worse. - -At last: "We were wrong to come here, Anna," she said. - -"No, no," responded Anna. "I am very well--I am very happy," she -added, enigmatically. - -The door of the box was slowly pushed open. Cesare Dias and Luigi -Caracciolo entered. With a word or two their guardian presented the -young man to the sisters. The men sat down, Cesare Dias next to Anna, -Luigi Caracciolo next to Laura. They began at once to talk in a light -vein about the performance. Overcoming the tumult of her heart, Anna -alone answered them. Stella Martini was silent, and Laura, with her -eyes half shut, listened without speaking. - -"Stagno is a great artist; he is immensely talented," observed Luigi -Caracciolo, with a bland smile, passing his fingers slowly through -his blonde beard. - -"And so much feeling--so much sentiment," added Anna. - -"To say that he is talented, that he is an artist, is enough," -replied Cesare Dias, with an accent in which severity was tempered by -politeness. - -Anna assented, bowing her head. - -"For the rest, the number of decent opera singers on the modern stage -is becoming less and less. We have a multitude of mediocrities, with -here and there a star," continued Luigi Caracciolo. - -"Ah, I have heard the great ones," sighed Cesare Dias. - -"Yes, yes. You must have heard Fraschini, Negrini, and Nourrit in -their time," Luigi Caracciolo said, smiling with the fatuity of a -fellow of twenty who imagines that his youth will last for ever. - -"You were a boy when I heard them, that's a fact--which doesn't -prevent my being an old man now," rejoined Cesare Dias, with that -shadow of melancholy in his voice which seemed so inconsistent with -his character. - -"What do years matter?" asked Anna, suddenly. "Other things matter -much more; other things affect us more profoundly, more intimately, -than years. Years are mere external, insignificant facts." - -"Thanks for that kindly defence, my dear," Cesare Dias exclaimed, -laughing; "but it only springs from the goodness of your heart." - -"From the radiance of youth," said Luigi Caracciolo, bowing, to -underline his compliment. - -Anna was silent and agitated. Nothing so easily upset her equilibrium -as light wordly conversation, based upon personalities and frivolous -gallantry. - -"Not enough, not enough," said Cesare Dias, wishing to cap the -compliment, and at the same time to bring his own philosophy into -relief. "As often as I find myself in the presence of these two -girls, Luigi, who are two flowers of youthfulness, I seem to feel -older than ever. I feel that I must be a hundred at least. How many -changes of Government have I seen? Eight or nine, perhaps. Yes, I'm -certainly more than a hundred, dear Anna." - -And he turned towards her with a light ironical smile. - -"Why do you say such things--such sad things?" murmured Anna. - -"Indeed they are sad--indeed they are. Youth is the only treasure -whose loss one may weep for the whole of one's life." - -"But don't feel badly about it, dear Cesare. Consider. Isn't -knowledge better than ignorance? Isn't the calm of autumn better than -the storms of spring? You are our master--the master of us all. We -all revere him, don't we, _Signorina_?" said Luigi, turning to Anna. - -A shadow crossed Anna's face, and she let the conversation drop. - -"And you, who say nothing, reasonable and placid Laura?" asked Cesare -Dias. "Which is better--youth or age? Which is better--knowledge or -ignorance? Here are knotty problems submitted to your wisdom, dear -Minerva. You are a young girl, but you are also Minerva. Illuminate -us. Who should be the happier--I, the master, or Caracciolo, my -pupil?" - -Laura thought for a moment, with an intent expression in her -beautiful eyes, and then answered: - -"It is best to combine the two--to have youth and wisdom together." - -"The problem is solved!" cried Cesare Dias. - -"And the _entr'acte_ is over; everything in its time. Good evening, -good evening; good-bye, Cesare," said Luigi. - -So Caracciolo took his leave, very correctly, without shaking hands -with Dias. Dias had risen, but Luigi seemed to understand that he -meant to stay in the girls' box. - -Anna, who had been looking up anxiously, waiting, looked down again -now, reassured. The door closed noiselessly upon the young man. - -"A pleasant fellow," observed Cesare Dias. - -"Very pleasant," agreed Stella Martini, for politeness' sake, or -perhaps because she desired to state her opinion. - -"In my quality of centenarian I feel at liberty to stop where I am," -said Cesare Dias, reseating himself behind Anna, while beside him, -behind Laura, sat Stella Martini. - -"You won't get a good view of the stage from there," said Stella. - -"I don't care to see. It will be enough to hear it, this fourth act." - -Anna said nothing. Courtesy forbade her looking directly at the -scene, for thus she must have turned her back upon Cesare Dias. It -embarrassed her a little to feel him there behind her. She did not -move. Their two chairs were close together; and their two costumes -made a striking contrast: his black dress-suit, the modern and -elegant uniform of the man of the world, so austere and so handsome -in its soberness; and her gown of white silk, the ceremonial robe of -a young girl in society. - -She was afraid her arm might touch Cesare's. He held his opera-hat in -his hand. She forbore to fan herself, lest he might have to change -his position. Now and then she raised her handkerchief to her lips, -as if to refresh them with the cool linen. - -While Saint-Bris, stirred by fanaticism, was telling the Catholic -lords of the excesses of the Huguenots, and exciting them by his -eloquence to share his fury; while the noble Nevers, the husband -of Valentina, was protesting against the massacre; while, through -the silence of the theatre, the grand musical poem of hatred, of -wrath, of generosity, of love, and of piety, was surging up to the -fascinated audience, Anna was thrilling at the thought that Cesare -Dias was looking at her, at her hair, at her lips, at her person; she -felt that she was badly dressed, pale, awkward, stupid. Wasn't the -Contessa d'Alemagna a thousand times more beautiful than she? The -Contessa d'Alemagna, with her dark complexion and her blue eyes, and -her expression of girlish ingenuousness deliciously contrasted with -womanly charm; the Contessa d'Alemagna, whom Cesare Dias had visited -before coming to his ward's box. Weren't there a hundred women of -their set present in the theatre this evening, each of them lovelier -than she? Young girls, smiling brides, and ladies to whom maturity -lent a richer attraction, all of them acquaintances of Cesare Dias, -who, from time to time, looked at them through his opera-glass. And, -indeed, her own sister, the wise Minerva, was she not more beautiful, -more maidenly, more poetical than Anna? Was it not because of her -beauty, her pure profile, her calm smile, that Cesare had called her -by that gracious name, Minerva? - -Anna bowed her head, as if oppressed by the heat and by the music, -but really from a sense of self-contempt and humiliation. There was a -looking-glass behind her. She was sorry now that she hadn't made an -inspection of herself in it, on entering the box. She had forgotten -her own face. Fantastically, she imagined it as brown and scarred, -and hideously pallid. Her white frock made it worse. She registered -a silent vow that she would always hereafter wear black. Only blonde -women could afford to dress in white. - -"You have dropped your fan," said Cesare Dias, stooping to recover it. - -He smiled as he handed it to her. - -"Thank you," said she, taking the fan. - -Presently she put it down on an empty chair next to her. Cesare Dias -picked it up, and began to fan himself. Then he pressed it to his -face. - -"What is it perfumed with?" he asked. - -"Heliotrope." - -"I like it," he said, and put the fan down. - -She was burning with a desire to take it, to touch what he had -touched, but she dared not. - -Cesare Dias leaned forward a little, to look at the stage. He was so -close to her, it seemed to Anna that she could hear him breathe. - -For her own part, a sort of intoxication, due no doubt in some -measure to the passionate art of the great composer, whose music -surged like a flood about her, had mounted from her heart to her -brain; she was conscious of nothing save a great world of love, save -the near presence of Cesare Dias. Her soul held a new and precious -treasure, a new joy. She delighted herself with the illusion that -the beating of her own heart was the beating of Cesare's. She forgot -everything--the place, the time, the future, youth, age, beauty, -everything; motionless, with her eyes cast down, she seemed to float -in a wave of soft warm light, aware of one single sweet sensation, -his nearness to her. She had forgotten the stage, the people round -her, Stella Martini, her sister Laura; the music itself was only a -distant echo; her whole being was concentrated in an ecstasy, which -she hoped might never end. She did not dare to move or speak, lest -she might thereby wake from her heavenly dream. She had again entered -anew into the land of passion. She was one of those natures which, -having ceased to love, begin again to love. - -"I could die like this," she thought. - -She felt that she could die thus, in a divine moment, when new love, -young and strong, has not yet learned the lessons of sorrow, of -shame, of worldly wickedness, that await it; it would be sweet to die -with one's illusions undisturbed, to die in the fulness of youth, -before one's ideals have begun to decay; to die loving, rather than -to live to see love die. - -So, on the stage, Raoul and Valentina, victims of an irrepressible -but impossible passion, were calling upon Heaven for death, praying -to be allowed to die in their divine moment of love. Anna, recoiling -from the thought of the future, with its inevitable vicissitudes, -struggles, tears, and disappointments, realised the fascination of -death. Involuntarily, she looked at Cesare. He smiled upon her, and -thereat she too smiled, like his faithful image in a mirror. And her -sublime longing to die, disappeared before the reality of his smile. - -She looked at him again, but this time he was intent upon the scene. -Anna felt that her love was being sung for her by the artists there, -by Raoul and Valentina. - -Cesare said to her, "How beautiful it is!" - -"It is beautiful," she murmured, bowing her head. - -It seemed to her that his voice had been unusually soft. What was -the reason? What commotion was taking place in his heart? She asked -herself these questions, but could not answer them. She loved him. -That was enough. She loved him; she could not hope to be loved by him. - -The music ceased. The curtain fell. - -"Have you ordered the carriage?" Cesare Dias asked of Stella Martini. - -"Yes, for twelve o clock. - -"If you'll wait for me a moment I'll go and get my overcoat." - -The ladies were putting on their cloaks, when Cesare came back, -wearing his hat and overcoat. He helped Stella on with hers, then -Laura, then Anna. - -And looking at the sisters, he said, "You ought to have your -portraits painted, dressed like this. I assure you, you're looking -extremely handsome. I speak as a centenarian." - -Laura smiled; Anna looked down, embarrassed. Her trouble was -increased when she saw Cesare politely offer his arm to Stella -Martini. Had she hoped that he would offer it to _her_? He motioned -to the girls to take the lead in leaving the box. Anna put her arm -through Laura's and went out slowly. - -He conducted them to their carriage, and when they were safely in it, -"I shall walk," he said, "It's such a fine evening. Good-night." - -In the darkness, as they drove home, Laura asked, "Did you see -Giustino Morelli?" - -"No, he wasn't there." - -"What do you mean? He _was_ there." - -"For me, he wasn't there. Giustino Morelli is dead." - - - - - V. - -Cesare Dias encouraged the attentions which his young friend Luigi -Caracciolo was paying to his ward Anna Acquaviva. He encouraged them -quietly, with the temperance which he showed in all things, not -with the undisguised eagerness of a father anxious to marry off his -daughter. - -And yet he was certainly anxious to marry her off. He was anxious to -hand his responsibilities over to a husband, to confide to the care -of another the safeguarding of that ardent and fragile soul, which -threatened at any moment to fall into emotional errors. A thousand -symptoms that could not escape his observant eye, kept him in a -state of secret nervousness about her. It was true, nevertheless, -that she had greatly changed for the better. Thanks to his constant -watchfulness, to his habit of reproving her whenever she betrayed the -impulsive side of her nature, to his sarcasm, to his biting speech, -she had indeed greatly changed in manner. - -A desire to obey him, to please him, a painless resignation, a loving -humility, showed themselves in everything she said and did. - -He saw that she was making mighty efforts to dominate the -impetuousness of her character; he saw that she listened with close -attention to his talk, trying to reconcile herself to those perverse -theories of his which pained her mortally. That was what he called -giving her a heart of bronze, strengthening her against the snares -and delusions of the world. If he could but deprive her of all -capacity for enthusiasm he would thereby deprive her of all capacity -for suffering, as well. - -Cesare Dias congratulated himself upon this labour of his, glorifying -himself as a sort of creator, who had known how to make over the most -refractory of all metals, human nature. And yet his mind was not -quite at ease. - -Her docility, her obedience, her self-control, roused his suspicions. -He began to ask himself whether the girl might not be a monster of -hypocrisy, whether under her tranquil surface she might not still be -on fire within. - -But had she not always been a model of sincerity? Her very faults, -had they not sprung from the truthfulness and generosity of her -nature? - -No; the hypothesis of hypocrisy was untenable. Cesare Dias was far -too intelligent to believe that the intimate essence of a soul can -undergo alteration. It was impossible that a soul so essentially -truthful as Anna's should suddenly become hypocritical. - -And yet he was not easy in his mind. - -What profound reason, what occult motive, could be at the bottom of -Anna's change of front? What was it that enabled her and persuaded -her to withhold her tears, suppress her sobs, and master the ardour -of her temperament? - -Ah, no! Cesare Dias was not easy in his mind. He knew the strength -of his own will, he understood his own power to rule people and to -impose his wishes upon them; but that was not enough to account for -the conditions that puzzled him. There must be something else. - -He was not anxious about Laura. The wise and beautiful Minerva -he could marry whenever he liked, to whomsoever he liked. He was -sure that Laura would be able to take care of herself. He held the -opinion, common to men of forty, that marriage was the only destiny -proper for a young girl. And it was only by means of a marriage that -he would be able to relieve himself of his weight of responsibility -in respect of Anna Acquaviva. - -So, as often as he decently could, he brought meetings to pass -between Luigi Caracciolo and his wards: sometimes at the theatre, -sometimes in the Villa Nazionale, sometimes at parties and dances; -indeed, it would seldom happen that Cesare would speak to the girls -in public, without the handsome young Luigi Caracciolo appearing a -few minutes later. - -There was probably a tacit understanding between the two men. - -Anna seemed to be unconscious of what was going on. Whenever her -guardian approached her, presenting himself with that elegant manner -which was one of his charms, she welcomed him with a luminous smile, -giving him her hand, gazing at him with brilliant, joyful eyes, -listening eagerly to what he had to say, and by every action showing -him her good-will. And when, in turn, Luigi Caracciolo followed, she -gave him a formal handshake, and exchanged a few words with him, -distantly, coldly. He would try his hardest to shine before her, to -bring the talk round to subjects with which he was familiar; but -their interviews were always so short! At the theatre, between the -acts; at the Villa, walking together for ten minutes at the utmost; -at a ball, during a quadrille; and always in the presence of Laura, -or Stella, or the Marchesa Scibilla, the girls' distant cousin, who -often chaperoned them; and always watched from afar by their guardian -Cesare Dias. - -The relations between Luigi Caracciolo and Anna Acquaviva were such -as, save in rare exceptional cases, always exist between people of -the aristocracy. They were founded upon conventionality tempered by a -certain amount of sympathy. The rigorous code of our nobility forbids -anything approaching intimacy. Luigi Caracciolo's courtship of Anna -was precisely like that of every other young man of his world. During -the Carnival, it became a little more pressing, perhaps; he began to -take on the appearance of a man in love. It seemed as if he invented -pretexts for seeing her every day. - -Willingly or unwillingly, Cesare Dias was his accomplice. Luigi was -becoming more and more attentive. If Anna mentioned a book, he would -send it to her, with a note; he would underline the sentimental -passages, and when he met her again would ask her opinion upon -it. If she mentioned a friend of her childhood, he would interest -himself in all the particulars of the friendship. He was burning to -know something about her first love affair; he had heard it vaguely -rumoured that she had had one, that it had ended unhappily, and been -followed by a violent illness. - -And, indeed, from the way in which she would sometimes suddenly turn -pale, from certain intonations of her voice, from her habit of going -off into day-dreams when something said or done seemed to suggest old -memories to her, it was easy for him to see that she must have passed -through some immense emotional experience, and suffered from some -terrible shock. She had a secret! Behind her great black eyes, behind -her trembling lips, behind her silence, she hid a secret. - -Luigi was in love with her, in his own way; not very deeply in love, -but in love. - -If Cesare Dias, in Anna's hearing, spoke of love, of the folly of -passion, of the futility of hope, the girl bowed her head, listening -without replying, as if she considered Cesare the infallible judge of -all things. - -Luigi Caracciolo saw this, and it tormented him with curiosity. Once -he openly asked Dias if Anna had not already been in love. Dias, with -the air of a man of the world, answered: - -"Yes, she was interested in a young man, a decent young fellow, who -behaved very well." - -"Why didn't they marry?" - -"The young man was poor." - -"Was she very fond of him?" - -"A mere girlish fancy." - -"And now she has quite forgotten him?" - -"Absolutely, absolutely." - -This dialogue relieved Luigi for a moment; but he soon felt that it -could not have contained the whole truth. He felt that the whole -truth could only be told by Anna Acquaviva herself. And when he was -alone with her he longed to question her on the subject, but his -questions died unspoken on his lips. - -Luigi's attentions to her had by this time become so apparent, and -Cesare's manner was so much that of a father desirous of giving his -consent to the betrothal of his daughter, that Anna could no longer -pretend not to understand. Sometimes, when Cesare would come up to -her, arm in arm with his young friend, she would look into his eyes -with an expression which seemed to ask, "Oh, why are you doing this?" - -He would appear not to notice this silent appeal. He knew very well -that to attain his object he would have to overcome tremendous -obstacles; that to persuade Anna Acquaviva to marry Luigi Caracciolo -would be like taking a strong fortress. But he was a determined man, -and he had determined to succeed. He saw her humility, he saw how she -lowered her eyes before him, he felt that in most things she would -be wax under his hand. But he was not at all sure that she would obey -him when it came to a question of love, when it came to a question of -her marriage. She might again rebel, as she had already rebelled. - -Anna felt a latent irritation at perceiving Luigi's intentions and -Cesare's approval of them, and she revenged herself by adopting -towards the young man a demeanour of haughty politeness, against -which he was defenceless. She took pleasure in contradicting him. If -he seemed sentimental--and he was often sentimental in his way, which -involved an element of sensuality--she became ironical, uttering -paradoxes against sentiment in general; her voice grew hard; she -seemed almost cynical. From sheer amiability Luigi Caracciolo always -ended by agreeing with her, but it was easy to see that in doing so -he was obeying his affection for her; he had quite the air of saying -that she was right, not because he was convinced, but because she was -a charming woman of whom he was devotedly fond. - -"You agree with me for politeness' sake. What weakness!" she said -angrily, with the impatience that women take no pains to conceal from -men whom they don't like. - -The slight smile with which Luigi assented to this proposition, and -implied, moreover, that weakness born of a desire to please a loved -one, was not altogether reprehensible, annoyed her more than ever. -Anna wished the whole exterior world to keep tune to her own ruling -thought, and anybody who by any means prevented such a harmony became -odious to her. Such an one was Luigi Caracciolo. - -Cesare Dias, with his acute insight, watched the couple rather -closely. And when he saw Anna trying to avoid a conversation with -Luigi, refusing to dance with him, or receiving him with scant -courtesy, a slight elevation of his eyebrows testified to his -discontent. - -One day, when she had turned her back upon the young man at a -concert, Cesare Dias, coming up, said to her, "You appear to be -treating Caracciolo rather badly, Anna." - -"I don't think so," she replied, trembling at his harsh tone. - -"I think so," he insisted. "And I beg you to be more civil to him." - -"I will obey you," she answered. - -For several days after that she seemed very melancholy. Laura, who -continued to sleep in the same room with her, often heard her sighing -at night in her bed. Two or three times she had asked a little -anxiously, "What is the matter?" - -"Nothing, nothing. Go to sleep," Anna replied. - -On the next occasion of her meeting Caracciolo, she treated him -with exaggerated gentleness, in which, however, the effort was very -apparent. He took it as so much to the good. She persevered in this -behaviour during their next few interviews, and then she asked Dias, -triumphantly: "Am I doing as you wish?" - -"In what respect?" - -"In respect of Caracciolo." - -"Do you need my approbation?" he asked, in surprise. "For politeness' -sake alone you should be civil to the young man." - -"But it was you who told me to be so," she stammered meekly. - -"I merely told you what a young lady's duty is--that's all." - -She bent her head contritely. She had made a great effort to please -Cesare Dias, and this was all the recognition she got. However, she -could not feel towards him the least particle of anger; and the -result was that her dislike of Luigi Caracciolo took a giant's stride. - -Luigi Caracciolo's name was in everybody's mouth; everybody talked -about him to her--Laura, Stella Martini, the Marchesa Scibilla. She -shrugged her shoulders, without answering. Her silence seemed like a -consent; but it is easy to guess that it was really only a means of -concealing her unpleasant thoughts. - -When, however, it was her guardian who mentioned Caracciolo, vaunting -not only his charm, but also the seriousness of his character, she -became excessively nervous. She looked at him in surprise, wondering -that he could speak thus of such a disagreeable and vulgar person, -and smiling ironically. - -One day, overcome by impatience, she asked: "But do you really take -him so seriously?" - -"Who?--Caracciolo?" - -"Of course--Caracciolo." - -"I take every man seriously, who deserves it; and he does, I assure -you." - -"I don't want to contradict you," she said, softly; "but that is not -my opinion." - -"Have you really an opinion on the subject?" he responded, with a -slight inflexion of contempt. - -"Yes, indeed, I have an opinion." - -"And why?" - -"Why, because----" - -"The opinions of young girls don't count, my dear. You are very -intelligent; there's no doubt of that. But you know absolutely -nothing." - -"But, after all," she exclaimed, "do you really wish to persuade me -that Caracciolo is a clever man?" - -"Certainly." - -"That he has a heart?" - -"Certainly," he answered, curtly. - -"That he is sympathetic?" - -"Certainly," he repeated for the third time. - -"Well, well," she said, disconcerted. "I find him arid in mind, hard -of heart, and often absurd in his manners. No one will ever convince -me of the contrary. He's a doll, not a man. Such a creature a man! It -doesn't require much knowledge to see through _him_!" - -"It is quite unnecessary to discuss it, my dear," said Cesare Dias, -icily. "We won't discuss it farther. I'm not anxious to convince you, -and it doesn't matter. Think what you like of anybody. It's not my -affair to correct your fancies. I have unlimited indulgence still at -your disposal for your extravagances; but there's one thing I can't -tolerate--ingratitude. Do you understand--I hate ingratitude?" - -"But what do you mean?" she cried, in anguish. - -"Nothing more. Good night." - -He turned on his heel and went away. For ten days he did not reappear -in the Acquaviva household. He had never before let so long an -interval pass without calling, unless he was out of town. Stella -Martini, not seeing him, ingenuously sent to ask how he was. He -replied, through his servant, that his health was perfect and that he -thanked her for her concern. - -In reality, he was furious because in his first skirmish with Anna on -the subject of Luigi Caracciolo she had beaten him; furious, not only -because of the wounds his _amour-propre_ had received, but because -his schemes for the girl's marriage were delayed. His anger was -mixed with certain very lively suspicions, lively, though as yet not -altogether clear in substance. It was impossible that Anna's conduct -should not be due to some secret motive. He began at last to wonder -whether she was still in love with Giustino Morelli. - -Meanwhile, he refrained from calling upon her, well aware that in -dealing with women no method is more efficacious than to let them -alone. And, indeed, Anna was already sorry for what she had said, not -because it wasn't true, but because she felt that she had thereby -offended Cesare Dias, perhaps very deeply. But what could she do, -what could she do? That Cesare Dias should plead with her for another -man! It was too much. She felt that she must no longer trust to time; -she must take decisive action at once. - -Cesare's absence caused her great bitterness. Her regret for what -she had said was exceedingly sharp during the first few days. She -realised that she had been wrong, at least in manner. She ought to -have held her tongue when she saw his face darken, and heard his -voice tremble with scorn. Instead, in her foolish pride, she had held -up her head, and spoken, and offended him. For two days, and during -the long watches of two nights, stifling her sobs so that Laura -should not hear them, she had longed to write him a little note to -ask his pardon; but then she had feared that that might increase his -irritation. Mentally, she was constantly on her knees before him, -begging to be forgiven, as a child begs, weeping. She believed, she -hoped he would come back; on his entrance she would press his hand -and whisper a submissive word of excuse. She had not yet understood -what a serious thing his silent vengeance could be. - -He did not call. And now a dumb grief began to take the place of -Anna's contrition, a dumb, aching grief that nothing could assuage, -because everything reminded her of its cause, his absence. Whenever -she heard a door opened, or the sound of a carriage stopping in the -street before the house, she trembled. She had no peace. She accused -him of injustice. Why was he so unjust towards her, towards _her_ who -ever since that fatal day at Pompeii had only lived to obey him? Why -did he punish her like this, when her only fault had been that she -saw the insignificance, the nullity, of Luigi Caracciolo? Every hour -that passed intensified her pain. In her reserve she never spoke of -him. Stella Martini said now and again, "Signor Dias hasn't called -for a long time. He must be busy." - -"No doubt," replied Laura, absently. - -"No doubt," assented Anna, in a weak voice. - -She was burning up with anxiety, with heartache, with suspicion, and -with jealousy. Yes, with jealousy. It had never occurred to her that -Cesare might have some secret love in his life, as other men have -their secret loves, and as he would be especially likely to have -his, for he was rich and idle. In her ingenuousness and ignorance, -it had never occurred to her. It was as if other women didn't exist, -or as if, existing, they were quite unworthy of his interest. But -now it did occur to her. In the darkness of his absence the thought -came to her, and took possession of her; and sometimes it seemed so -infinitely likely, that she could scarcely endure it. - -It was more than probable that amongst all the beautiful women of his -acquaintance there was one whom he loved. It was with her that he -passed his hours--his entire days, perhaps. That was why Anna never -saw him! At the end of a week her distress had become so turbulent, -that her head reeled, as it used to reel when she thought of flying -with Giustino Morelli. As it used to reel then? Nay, more, worse than -then. - -In those days she had not felt the consuming fires of jealousy, fires -that destroy for ever the purest joys of love. In those days the man -she cared for was so absolute in his devotion to her, she had not -tasted the bitterness of jealousy, a bitterness beyond the bitterness -of gall and wormwood, a poison from whose effects those who truly -love never recover. - -But who was she, the woman that so powerfully attracted Cesare as -to make him forget his child! The Contessa d'Alemagna, perhaps. -Yes, it must be she--that dark lady, with the blue eyes, the -wonderful toilets, the youthful colour, the vivacious manner; she -was indeed an irresistible enchantress. Poor Anna! During Cesare's -absence she learned all the phases of hope and fear, of torturing -jealousy, of wretched loneliness. He did not come he did not come; -perhaps he would never come again. What had he said? That he -detested ingratitude, that he despised people who were ungrateful. -Ungrateful--she! But how could he expect her to thank him for wishing -to marry her to Luigi Caracciolo? Was she really ungrateful? - -Three or four times she had written to him, begging him to come; -now a simple little note; now a long passionate letter, full of -contradictions, wherein, to be sure, the word "love" never appeared, -but where it could be read between the lines; now a frank, short -love-letter: but each in turn had struck her as worse than the -others, as more trivial, more ineffectual; and she had ended by -tearing them to pieces. - -It was she who had put it into Stella Martini's head to send to -inquire how he was; his curt response to that inquiry struck a chill -to her heart: he was in town, and he was well. Then she would go out -for long walks with Stella, in the hope of meeting him. - -One afternoon in February, at last, she did meet him, thus, in the -street. - -"How do you do?" she said, nervously. - -"Very well," he answered, with a smile. - -"It's a long while since we have seen you," said Stella Martini. - -"I hadn't noticed it." - -"You haven't called for many days," said Anna, looking into his eyes. - -"Many?" - -"Eight days." - -"Eight. Really? Are you sure?" - -"I have counted them," she said, turning away her head, as if to look -at the sea. - -"I'm sure that's a great compliment." And he bowed gallantly. - -"It wasn't a compliment. It was affection, it was gratitude." - -"Good. I see you're in a better frame of mind. I'll call to-morrow." - -When he had left them, Anna and Stella went on towards the -Mergellina, walking more rapidly than before. Anna kept looking at -the sea, with a slight smile upon her lips, a new colour in her -cheeks. She buried her hands in her muff. Had he not pressed one -of those hands at parting with her? Now and then she would look -backwards, as if expecting to see him again; it was the hour of the -promenade. She did see him again, indeed; but this time he was in a -carriage, a smart trap of the Viennese pattern, driven dashingly by -Luigi Caracciolo. - -She saw them approaching from afar, swiftly. She bowed and smiled -to both of them. Her smile was luminous with happiness; and Luigi -Caracciolo imagined himself the cause of it, and drove more slowly; -and Cesare Dias was pleased by it, for he took it as an earnest of -her better frame of mind. - -When Stella Martini asked her, "Shall we continue our walk or go -home?" she answered, "Let us go home." - -She had seen him; she had told him how anxiously she had counted the -days of his absence; he had promised that he would call to-morrow. -She had seen him again, and had smiled upon him. That was enough. She -mustn't ask too much of Providence in a single day. - -Anna went home as happy as if she had recovered a lost treasure. And -yet Cesare Dias had been cold and distant. But what did that matter -to Anna? She had got back her treasure; that was all. Again she would -enjoy his dear presence, she would hear his voice, she would sit near -to him, she would speak with him, answer him; he would come again -every day, at his accustomed hour; she could please herself with the -fancy that that hour was sacred to him, as it was to her. Nothing -else mattered. It was true that she had met him by the merest chance; -it was true, that had chance ordered otherwise, a fortnight might -have passed without her seeing him. It was true, that he had taken no -pains to bring about their meeting. It was true, also, that she and -Stella had as much as begged him to call upon them. But in all this -he had been so like himself, his conduct had been so characteristic, -that Anna was glad of it. It was a great thing to have made her peace -with him, without having had to write to him. - -"Signor Dias was looking very well," said Stella Martini, "we shall -see him to-morrow." - -"Yes, to-morrow," said Anna, smiling. - -"I missed him immensely during his long absence." - -"So did I." - -"You're very fond of him, aren't you?" Stella inquired ingenuously. - -"Yes," answered Anna, after a little hesitation. - -"He's so good--in spite of the things he says," observed the -governess. - -"He is as he is," murmured Anna, with a gesture. - -When they got home, Laura noticed Anna's air of radiant joy. Anna -moved about the room, without putting by her hat or muff. - -At last she said, "You know, we met Dias." - -"Ah?" responded Laura, without interest. - -"He's very well." - -"That's nothing extraordinary." - -"He's coming to-morrow." - -"Good." - -But when he arrived the next day, it was Laura who received him. -Anna, at the sound of the bell, had taken refuge in her own room. - -"Oh, wise Minerva!" cried Dias, pressing her little white hand. "You -are well. You are natural. You know no weakness. You, I am sure, -haven't been counting the days of my absence. I understand. I am -wise, too. We are like the Seven Sages of Greece." - -She responded with a smile. Cesare Dias looked at her admiringly. -Then Anna came. She was embarrassed; and red and white alternated in -her cheek. She spoke nervously, and kept her eyes inquiringly fixed -upon Cesare's face. He, on the other hand, was calm and superior. He -behaved as if he had never been away. He had the good sense not to -mention Luigi Caracciolo; and Anna, who was waiting for that name -as for an occasion to show her submissiveness, was disconcerted. -Dias appeared to have forgotten the ingratitude with which he had -reproached her. He had the countenance of a man too magnanimous -to bear a grudge. And Anna was more than ever disconcerted by -such unmerited generosity. For several days he did not speak of -Caracciolo; then, noticing how Anna said yes to every remark he made, -little by little he began to reintroduce the subject. Little by -little Caracciolo regained his position, became a new, an important -member of their group. He returned to the attack, encouraged by -the smile he had received that day in the Mergellina. His manner -was more devoted than ever. He treated the girl as a loved object -before whom he could pass his life kneeling. She could not control a -movement of dislike at first seeing him, because it was he who had -occasioned her quarrel with Cesare Dias; but Luigi did not notice it; -and she soon got herself in hand, determined to treat him as kindly -as she possibly could. It was a sacrifice she was making to please -Cesare Dias. She closed her eyes to shut out the vision of the peril -towards which she was advancing. She compromised herself with Luigi -Caracciolo day after day. She compromised herself as a girl does -only with the man she means to marry; accepting flowers from him, -answering his notes, listening to his compliments; and at night, when -she was alone, she would tremble with anger and with self-contempt, -counting the steps she had made during the afternoon towards the -great danger! But the fear of seeing Cesare Dias again absent himself -for eight days, the fear that he might again pass eight days at the -feet of the Contessa d'Alemagna, or at those of some other beautiful -woman--this fear rendered her so weak that she went on, not knowing -where she might stop, feeling that she was approaching the most -terrible crisis of her life. - -Cesare Dias, somewhat easier in his mind about the girl appeared to -be pleased in a fatherly way by her conduct; it seemed as if he was -watching his chance to speak the decisive word. Anna, dreading that -word, had got into an overwrought nervous condition, where her humour -changed from minute to minute. Now she would cry, now she would -laugh, now she would blush, now she would turn pale. - -"What's the matter?" asked Dias. - -"Nothing," she answered, passing her hand over her eyes. - -But at his question she smiled radiantly, and he felt that he had -worked a little miracle. - -He was a clever man, and he knew that he must strike while the iron -was hot. He must attack Anna in one of her moments of meekness, or -not at all. Luigi Caracciolo became more and more pressing; he loved -the girl, and he told her so in every look he gave her. And time was -flying. Everybody who met Anna congratulated her upon her engagement; -and when she replied: "No, I'm not engaged," people shook their -heads, smiling sceptically. - -One afternoon, angry with Caracciolo because of a letter he had -written to her, and which he insisted upon her answering, she said to -Dias, who was talking with Laura: - -"I want to speak to you." - -"Good. And I want to speak to you." - -"Then--will you call to-morrow?" - -"Yes. In the morning." - -He returned to his conversation with Laura. - -All night long she prayed for strength and courage. - -And when, the next morning, she was alone with him, too frightened to -speak, she simply handed him Caracciolo's letter. He took it, read -it, and silently returned it. - -"What do you think of it?" she asked. - -"Ah!" he exclaimed, as if he did not wish to express an opinion. - -"Does it strike you as a serious letter?" - -"Yes, it's serious." - -"I may easily be mistaken," she said. "That is why I want to ask your -advice. You--you know so much." - -"A little," he assented, smiling. - -They spoke very quietly, seated side by side, without looking at each -other. - -"Doesn't he strike you as bold?" she asked. - -"Who? Caracciolo? For having written that letter?" - -"Yes." - -"No. People in love are always writing letters. They don't always -send them, but they always write them." - -"Ah, is that so?" - -"He loves you, therefore he writes to you." - -"He loves me?" she inquired, trembling. - -"Of course." - -"Are you sure?" - -"Certainly." - -"Has he told you so?" - -"He has told me so." - -"And what did you answer?" - -"I? Nothing. He asked me nothing. He merely announced a fact. It's -from you that he expects an answer." - -"From me?" she exclaimed. - -"Every letter calls for an answer." - -"I shan't answer this one." - -"Why not?" - -"Because I have nothing to say to him." - -"Don't you love him?" - -"No." - -"Not even a little? Don't you like him?" - -"No, I don't love him, I don't even like him." - -"I can't believe it," he said, very gravely, as if he saw before him -an insurmountable obstacle. - -"You deceive yourself then," said she. - -"I see that you receive him kindly, that you speak to him politely, -that you listen to his compliments, apparently with pleasure. That's -a great deal for a young girl to do." And he lifted his eyebrows. - -"I have done it to please you--because he is a friend of yours," she -cried. - -"Thank you," he cried, curtly. - -Then befell a silence. She played with an antique coin attached to -her watch-chain, and kept her eyes cast down. - -"So," he began presently, "so you won't marry Luigi Caracciolo?" - -"No. Never." - -"He's a splendid fellow, though. He has a noble name, a handsome -fortune. And he loves you." - -"I don't love him, and I won't marry him." - -"Love isn't necessary in marriage," said Cesare coldly. - -"Not for others, perhaps. For me it is necessary," she cried, pained -in the bottom of her heart by this apothegm. - -"You know nothing about life, my dear. A marriage for love and a -marriage for convenience are equally likely to turn out happily or -unhappily. And of what use is passion? Of none." - -She bowed her head, not convinced, obstinate in her faith, but -respecting the man who spoke to her. - -"If you don't care for Luigi Caracciolo, you ought to try not to see -him." - -"I will avoid him." - -"But he will seek you." - -"I'll stay in the house." - -"He'll write to you." - -"I have already said I won't answer him." - -"He will persevere; I know him. The prize at stake is important. He -will persevere." - -"You will tell him that the marriage is impossible." - -"Ah, no, my dear. I shan't be the bearer of any such ungracious -message." - -"Aren't you--aren't you my guardian?" - -"Yes, I am your guardian. But I heartily wish Francesco Acquaviva had -not chosen me. Frankly, I would prefer to be nothing to you." - -"Am I--so bad?" she pleaded, with tears in her eyes. - -"I don't know whether you are good or bad. I don't waste my time -trying to make such distinctions. I only know that he's a fine young -fellow, handsome and rich, who loves you, and that you, without a -single earthly reason, refuse him. I know that he is anxious to marry -you, in spite of the fact that you don't care for him, in spite -of--pass me the word--in spite of the extravagance of your character. -Excuse me, dear Anna, but I want to ask you whether you think it will -be easy to find another husband?" - -"How can I tell?" - -"I ask, do you think another will be likely to ask you for your hand?" - -"Excuse me. I don't understand," she said, turning pale, because she -did understand. - -"My dear, have you forgotten the past?" - -"What past?" she demanded, proudly. - -"Nothing but a flight from home, my dear. A day passed at Pompeii -with a young man. Nothing else." - -"Oh, heavens!" she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. - -"Don't cry out, Anna. This is a serious moment. You must control -yourself. Remember that what you did respectable girls don't do. -Luigi Caracciolo knows nothing about it, or nothing definite. But a -man who did know about it, wouldn't marry you, my dear. It's hard; -it's cruel; but it's my duty to tell it to you. Marry him; marry -Luigi. That is the advice of a friend, of a true friend, Anna. Marry -Luigi Caracciolo." - -"I committed a great fault," she said, in a dull voice, "but haven't -you forgiven me, you and Laura?" - -"Yes, yes. But husbands--but young men about to marry, don't pardon -such faults. With what jealous care I have kept that secret! I have -guarded it as if I were your father. And now you let a chance like -this slip away! Not realising that such a chance may never come -again! But another man, an equal of Caracciolo, where is he to be -found?" - -"It is true that I committed a great fault," she said, returning -always to the same idea; "but my honour was untouched." - -"I am the only person who knows that." - -"It is enough for me that you know it." - -"Anna, Anna, you're a foolish child; that's what you are. You fall -in love with a penniless nobody, you escape from your home, you risk -your honour, and you are saved by a miracle. Afterwards, you are -ill, you get well, you forget the young beggar; and then when a fine -fellow like Caracciolo falls in love with you, you refuse him. You're -mad, Anna. Marry Luigi Caracciolo. I beg you to marry him." - -"You can't ask me that," she murmured. - -"Love is a fancy. Marry Caracciolo." - -"I can't." - -"But why not? It's not a sufficient reason to say that you don't love -him." - -"Look for another reason, then," she said. - -"I'll find it." - -Cesare Dias had spoken these words in a threatening tone, unusual to -him. He rarely lost his temper. - -After a long pause he asked, smiling sarcastically, "You are in love -with some one else, I suppose?" - -Anna did not answer. She wrung her hands and hid her eyes. - -"Why don't you answer? You've fallen in love again, have you not?" - -"Again? What do you mean?" she exclaimed. - -"I mean that to explain your refusal of Luigi Caracciolo, you must be -in love with some other man. You little girls believe that passion is -everlasting. You believe in faithfulness that lasts, if not beyond -the grave, at least up to its brink. Are you still in love with -Giustino Morelli?" - -"Oh, don't insult me like that," she cried, in a convulsion of sobs. - -"Calm yourself," said he, studying her with cold curiosity, while she -wept. - -"For pity's sake, don't think that of me," she besought him; "Say -anything that I deserve, but not that, not that." - -"Calm yourself," repeated Dias. "We will speak of this another day." - -"Listen, listen," she cried. "Don't go away yet. Forgive me, first, -for having interfered with one of your plans. But marry Luigi -Caracciolo--I can't, indeed I can't. I never can. You smile at my -word _never_. You are right, the human heart is such a fickle thing. -Forgive me. But you will see that I am not wrong. You will never -never have any more trouble with me. I will be so obedient, so meek. -I will do everything you wish. Compared to you I am such a little, -poor, worthless thing." - -She was weeping. Giustino Morelli and Luigi Caracciolo had -disappeared from the conversation; only Cesare Dias and Anna -Acquaviva remained in it. He listened with growing curiosity. If in -one sense he had lost a battle, in another his vanity had gained a -victory. A smile passed over his face. - -"Don't cry," he said. - -"Oh, let me cry. I am so unhappy, so miserable. I have played away -my life so foolishly. But I didn't know. I swear to you, I didn't -understand. Now all is over. I am a lost woman----" - -"Don't exaggerate." - -"Oh, you yourself said it. You are right. A respectable girl, who -holds dear her honour, who is jealous of her reputation, doesn't fly -from her home, doesn't throw herself into the arms of a man. You are -right--you only--you are always right--you who are so wise. But if -you knew--if you knew what it is like, this madness that springs up -from my heart to my brain--if you knew how I lose my head, when my -feelings get the better of me--you would be sorry for me." - -"Don't cry any more," he said, very low. - -"Ah, if tears could only wash out the past," she sighed. - -"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising. - -"Don't go away." And she took his hand. "I haven't said anything to -you yet. I haven't explained. You are going away angry with me. But -you are right. The sooner it is finished the better. To-day I have no -strength. I irritate you. Women who make scenes are always tiresome. -But you ought to know, you ought. I will write to you--I will write -everything. You permit me to, don't you? Say that you permit me. I -can't live unless you let me write and tell you everything." - -"Write," he said, softly. - -"And you forgive me?" - -"I have nothing to forgive. Write. Good-bye, Anna." - -She sat down. Dias went away. Laura and Stella came into the room. - -"Well, is the marriage arranged?" asked Stella, not noticing Anna's -red eyes and pale cheeks. - -"No. It will never be arranged." - -An hour later Laura asked: "Are you in love with Cesare Dias?" - -"Yes," answered Anna, simply. - - - - - VI. - -Anna's letter to Cesare Dias ran thus: - -"I don't know what name to call you by, whether by your own name, so -soft and proud, or whether by that of Friend, which says so much, and -yet says nothing. I don't know whether I should write here the word -that my respect for you imposes upon me, or the word that my heart -inspires. Perhaps I had better call you by no name at all; perhaps -I ought not to struggle against the unconquerable superior will -that dominates me. I am so poor a creature, I am so devoid of moral -strength, that the best part of my soul is unconscious of what it -does, and when I attempt to act, I am defeated from the outset; is it -not true? Ah, there is never an hour of noble and fruitful battle in -my heart! Only an utter ignorance of things, of feelings, a complete -surrender to the sweetness of love, and, thereby, the loss of all -peace, all hope! - -"How you must despise me. You are just and wise. You can't help -despising a poor weak thing like me, a woman whose heart is always -open, whose imagination is always ready to take fire, whose -changeable mind is never fixed, whose veins, though cured of their -great fever, are still burning, as if her rebellious blood could do -nothing but burn, burn, burn. If you despise me--and your eyes, your -voice, your manner, all tell me that you do--you are quite right. I -never seem to be doing wrong, yet I am always doing it; and then, -when I see it, it is too late to make good my error, to recover my -own happiness, or to restore that of others. Ah, despise me, despise -me; you are right to despise me. I bend to every wind that blows, -like a broken reed. I am overturned and rent by the tempest, for I -know neither how to defend myself nor how to die. Despise me; no one -can despise me as you can, no one has so good a right to do it. - -"When you are away from me, I can think of you with a certain amount -of courage, trusting to your kindness, to your charity, to forgive me -my lack of strength. When you are away from me, I feel myself more a -woman, braver; I can dream of being something to you, not an equal, -no, but a humble follower in the things of the soul. Dreams, dreams! -When you are with me, all my faith in myself disappears; I recognise -how feeble I am, how extravagant, how incoherent; no more, never -more, can I hope for your indulgence. - -"I think of my past--justly and cruelly you reproached me with -it--and I find in it such a multitude of childish illusions, such -an entirely false standard of life and love, such a monstrous -abandonment of all right womanly traditions, that my shame rushes in -a flame to my face. Have you not noticed it? - -"Before that fatal day at Pompeii--the first day of my real -existence--I had a treasury of feelings, of impressions, of ideas, my -own personal ones, by which my life was regulated, or rather by which -it was disturbed; they were swept away, they were destroyed, they -disappeared from my soul on that day. To you, who showed me how great -my fault was, to you, who trampled down all that I had cared for, I -bow my head, I bow my spirit. You were right. You are right. You only -are right. You are always right. I want to convince you that I see -the truth clearly now. Let me walk behind you, let me follow you, as -a servant follows her master. Ah, give me a little strength you who -are strong, you who have never erred, you who have conquered yourself -and the world. Give me strength, you who seem to me the model of -calmness and justice--above all hazards, because you have known how -to suffer in silence, above all human joy, because you understand -its emptiness; and yet so kind, so indulgent, so quick to forgive, -because you are a man and never forget to be a man. - -"You despise me, that is certain; for all strong natures must despise -weakness. But it is also certain that you pity me, because I am -buffeted about by the storms of life, without a compass, without a -star. I have already once been wrecked; in that wreck I left behind -me years of health and hope, the best part of my youthful faith. And -now I am in danger of being wrecked again, utterly and for ever, -unless you save me. - -"Say what you will to me; do what you will with me. Insult me, after -having despised me. But don't leave me to my weakness, don't withdraw -your support from me. It is my only help. - -"What shall I call you? Friend? - -"Friend, I shall be lost if you do not save me, if you refuse to -allow my soul to follow yours, strengthened by your strength, if you -cast me out from your spiritual presence, if you do not give me the -support that my life finds in yours. Friend, friend, friend, don't -cast me off. Say what you will, do what you will, but don't separate -me from you. If you do, I shall die. I, a beggar, knock at your door." - -The letter continued-- - -"You wounded me profoundly when you said that it was perhaps Giustino -Morelli, the man for whose sake I refused to marry Luigi Caracciolo. -I can't hear the bare name of Morelli, without shuddering with -contempt. It isn't that I am angry with him, no, no. It is that he -does not exist for me; he is the vain shadow of a dead man. On the -evening of "The Huguenots,"--ah me! that music sings constantly in my -soul, I shall never forget it--he was there, and I didn't see him, I -wouldn't see him. I don't hate him. He was a poor, weak fool; honest -perhaps, for you have said so; but small in heart and mind! And thus -my contempt for him is really contempt for myself, who made an idol -of him. How was I ever able to be so blind? When I think of it, I -wring my hands in desperation, for it was before him that I burned -the first pure incense of my heart. I shall never forgive myself." - -Cesare Dias read this letter twice through. Then he left his house -to go about his affairs and his pleasures. Returning home, he read -it for a third time. Thereupon he wrote the following note, which he -immediately sent off. - -"Dear Anna,--All that you say is very well; but I don't know yet who -the man is that you love.--Very cordially, Cesare Dias." - -She read it, and answered with one line: "I love you.--Anna -Acquaviva." - -Cesare Dias waited a day before he replied: "Dear Anna,--Very well. -And what then?--Cesare Dias." - -In the exaltation of her passion she had taken a step whereby she -risked her entire future happiness; and she knew it. She had taken -the humiliating step of declaring her love. Would Dias hate her? She -had expected an angry letter from him, a letter saying that he would -never see her again; instead of which she had received a colourless -little note, neither warm nor cold, treating her declaration as he -might have treated any most ordinary incident of his day. - -That was the unkindest cut of all. Cesare Dias was simply -indifferent. For her, love was a tragedy; for him, it was an ordinary -incident of his day. - -What to do now? She could not think. What to do? What to do? Had -he himself not asked, with light curiosity: "And what then?" He -had asked it with the sort of curiosity one might show for the -continuation of a novel one was reading. - -All night long she sobbed upon her pillow. - -"What is the matter?" asked Laura, waking up. - -"Nothing. Go to sleep." - -In the morning she wrote to him again: - -"Why do you ask me _what then_? I don't know; I cannot answer. God -has allowed me to love a second time. I know nothing of 'then.' I -only know one thing--I love you. Perhaps you have known it too, this -long while. My eyes, my voice, my words wherein my soul knelt before -you, must have told you that I loved you. Have you not seen me bow -my proud head daily in humility before you? I began to love you that -evening when we came home together from Pompeii, when my fever was -beginning. Afterwards, my whole nature was transformed by my love -of you. I don't ask you to love me. Perhaps you are bound by other -loves, past loves. Perhaps you have never loved, and wish never to -love. Perhaps I don't please you, either spiritually or bodily. What -is passing in your mind? Who knows? I only know that you are strong -and wise, that you never turn aside, that you follow your noble path -tranquilly, in the triumphant calm of your greatness. Have you loved? -Will you love? Who knows? All I ask is that you will let me love -you, without being separated from you. I ask that you will promise -to wish me well, not as your ward, not as your sister, but as a poor -girl who loves you with all her soul and life. I don't ask you to -change your habits in any way; the least of your habits, the least -of your desires, is sacred to me. Live as you have always lived, -only remember that in a corner of Naples there is a heart that finds -its only reason for existence in your existence, and continue from -time to time to give it a minute of your presence. My love will be a -silent companion to you. - -"Are you not the same man who said to me, with a voice that trembled -with pity, in that dark, empty room at the inn in Pompeii, while I -felt that I was dying--are you not the same man who said, _My poor -child, my poor child_? - -"You pitied me. You do pity me. You will pity me. I know it, I know -it. And that is the 'then' of my love. - -"Don't write to me. I should be afraid to read what you might write. - -"Ah, how I love you! How I love you! - - "ANNA ACQUAVIVA." - -Cesare Dias was very thoughtful after he had read this letter. His -vanity, the vanity of a man of forty, was flattered by it. And Anna's -love, for the present, at any rate, seemed to be entirely obedient -and submissive. But would it remain so? Cesare Dias had had a good -deal of experience. Anna's he knew to be a proud and self-willed -character; would it always remain on its knees, like this? Some day -she would not be content only to love, she would demand to be loved -in return. - -He did not answer the letter. He was an enemy to letter writing in -general, to the writing of love letters in particular; and, anyhow, -what could he say? - -For two days he did not call upon her. On the third day, he arrived -as usual, at two o'clock. - -Anna, during these days, had lived in a state of miserable suspense -and nervousness. - -"What is the matter with her?" Stella Martini asked of Laura. - -"I don't know." - -But the governess tormented her with questions, and at last she -answered impatiently: "I think she is in love." - -"Again?" - -"Yes, again." - -"And with whom?" - -"She has never told me to tell you," cried Laura, leaving the room. - -"What is the matter with you?" Stella asked of Anna. "You are -suffering. Why do you conceal your sorrow from me?" - -"If I am suffering, it's my own fault," said Anna. "Only God can help -me." - -"Can't I help you? You are in deep grief." - -"Deep grief." - -"You have placed your hopes where they can't be realised? Again?" - -"Again." - -"Why, dear? Explain it to me." - -"Because it is my destiny, perhaps." - -"You are young, beautiful, and rich. You ought to be the mistress of -your destiny. It is only poor solitary people who have to submit to -destiny." - -"I am poorer than the poorest beggar that asks for alms in the -street." - -"Don't talk like that," said Stella, gently, taking her hand. "Tell -me about it." - -"I can't tell you about it, I can't. It is stronger than I am," said -Anna, and her anguish seemed to suffocate her. - -"Tell me nothing, then, darling. I understand. I'm only a poor -servant; but I love you so. And I want to tell you, Anna, that there -are no sorrows that can't be outlived." - -"If Heaven doesn't help me, my sorrow will kill me." - -"The only irremediable sorrow in this world is the death of some one -whom we love," said Stella, shaking her head. "You will see." - -"I would rather die than live like this." - -"But is the case quite desperate? Is there no ray of light?" - -"Perhaps." - -"Is it a man on whom your hope depends?" - -"Yes." - -"Do I know him?" - -But Anna put her fingers on her lips, to silence Stella. The bell had -rung. And, at the sound of it, Stella heard a great sigh escape from -Anna's breast. - -"What is it?" she asked. - -"Nothing, nothing," said Anna, passing her pocket-handkerchief over -her face. "Go to the drawing-room." - -"Must I leave you alone?" - -"I beg you to. I am so upset. I want a minute of peace." - -"And you will come afterwards?" - -"I'll come when I can--when I am calm again." - -Stella went slowly away. In the drawing-room she found Dias, who was -showing a copy of the illustrated _Figaro_ to Laura. Dias bowed and -asked, "And Anna?" - -"She will come presently." - -"Is she well?" - -"Not ill." - -"Then she is not well?" - -"I don't think so. But you will see for yourself." - -He and Laura returned to the engravings in the _Figaro_, which were -very good. Stella left them. - -Anna entered the room. Her heart was beating wildly. She did not -speak. She sat down at the opposite side of the table on which the -newspaper was spread out. - -Dias said, referring to the pictures, "They're very clever." - -"Very clever," agreed Laura. - -Dias bowed to Anna, smiling, and asking, "How do you do?" - -"Well," she answered. - -"Signora Martini told me that she feared you were not very well." - -"It's her affection for me, that imagines things. I am quite well." -In his tone she could feel nothing more than pity for her. "I am only -a little nervous." - -"It's the weather, the sirocco," said Dias. - -"Yes, the sirocco," repeated Anna. - -"You'll be all right when the sun shines," said he. - -"When the sun shines, perhaps," she repeated mechanically. - -Laura rose, and left the room. - -After a silence, Cesare Dias said, "It is true, then, that you love -me?" - -Anna looked at him. She could not speak. She made a gesture that said -yes. - -"I should like to know why," he remarked, playing with his -watch-chain. - -She looked her surprise, but did not speak. - -"Yes, why," he went on. "You must have a reason. There must be a -reason if a woman loves one man and not another. Tell me. Perhaps I -have virtues whose existence I have never suspected." - -Anna, confused and pale, looked at him in silence. He was laughing at -her; and she besought him with her gaze to have pity upon her. - -"Forgive me, Anna. But you know it is my bad habit not to take -seriously things that appear very serious to others. My raillery -hurts you. But some day you must really try to tell me why you care -for me." - -"Because you are you," she said softly. - -"That's a very profound reason," he answered smiling. "But it would -require many hours of meditation to be understood. And, of course, -you will always love me?" - -"Always." - -"May I say something that will pain you?" - -"Say it," she sighed. - -"It seems to me, then, that you are slightly changeable. A year ago -you thought you loved another, and would love him always. Confess -that you have utterly forgotten him. And in another year--what will -my place be?" - -But he checked himself. She had become livid, and her eyes were full -of tears. - -"I have pained you too much. Nothing gives pain like the truth," -he said. "But there, smile a little. Don't you think smiles are as -interesting as tears? You're very lovely when you smile." - -And obediently she smiled. - -"Well, then, this eternal love," he went on, "what are we to do about -it?" - -"Nothing. I only love you." - -"Does that suffice?" - -"I must make it suffice." - -"You are easily satisfied. Will you always be so modest in your -hopes?" - -"The future is in the hands of God," said she, not having the courage -to lie. - -"Ah! that is what I want to talk about--the future. You are hoping -something from the future. Otherwise you would not be satisfied. The -future, indeed! You are twenty. You have never thought of my age, -have you?" - -"It doesn't matter. For me you are young." - -"And I will come to love you? That is your hope?" - -"I have asked for nothing. Don't humiliate me." - -He bowed, slightly disconcerted. - -He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little portfolio in red -leather, which he opened, drawing forth two or three letters. - -"I have brought your letters with me. Letters are so easily lost, and -other people read them. So, having learned their contents, I return -them to you." - -She did not take them. - -"What!" he cried, "aren't you glad to get them back? But there's -nothing women wish so much as to get back the letters they have -written." - -"Tear them up--you," she murmured. - -"It's not nice to tear up letters." - -"Tear them, tear them." - -"As you like," he said, tearing them up. - -She closed her eyes while he was doing it. Then she said with a sad -smile: - -"So, it is certain, you don't care for me?" - -"I mustn't contradict you," he answered gallantly. - -He took her hand to bid her good-bye. - -Slowly she went back to her bedroom. - -There she found Stella Martini. - -"Do you remember, Stella, that day I left you in the Church of Santa -Chiara?" - -"Yes; I remember." - -"Well, now I tell you this--never forget it. On that day I signed my -own death-sentence." - - - - - VII. - -The Villa Caterina was embowered amongst the flowering orange-trees -of Sorrento. On the side towards the town the villa had a beautiful -Italian garden, where white statues gleamed amidst green leaves, -and where all day long one could listen to the laughing waters -of fountains. From the garden a door led directly into a big -drawing-room. On the other side of the house a broad terrace looked -over the sea. - -This was the summer home of the Acquaviva family. It was bigger -and handsomer than the house in Naples. There was greater freedom, -greater luxury, greater cheerfulness here, than in the gloomy palace -of the Piazza dei Gerolomini. The girls were very fond of Villa -Caterina, and their father, Francesco Acquaviva, had been very fond -of it. He had named it for his wife. It was here that the couple -had passed all the summers of their married life; it was here that -Caterina Acquaviva had died. The girls had a sweet, far-away memory -of their mother; in her room at the Villa she was almost like a -living presence to them. - -When the spring came Anna began to speak of going to Sorrento. She -felt that if she could get away from Naples she might experience a -change of soul. The broad light and ceaseless murmur of the sea would -calm her and strengthen her. When Laura or Stella asked her, "What is -the matter?" she would answer, "I don't like being _here_." - -She said nothing of her great sorrow. She shut it into her heart, -and felt that it was killing her by inches. She passed long hours in -silent meditation, her eyes fixed vaguely upon the air; when spoken -to, she would start nervously, and look at her interlocutor as if she -had suddenly been called back from a distant land of dreams. - -Those who loved her saw her moral and physical trouble. She stayed -in the house day after day; she gave up her walks; she went no more -to the theatre. She had lost her interest in the things that used to -please her. She was very gentle, very kind to everybody. To Cesare -Dias she showed an unfailing tenderness. She was often silent before -him. When he spoke to her, she would reply with a look, a look of -such deep melancholy that even his hard heart was touched. She was -very different to the impetuous creature of former times. - -When the spring came, with its languorous warmth, her weakness -increased. In spite of all her efforts to conquer her desire to do -so, she would spend long hours writing to Cesare. It was her only -way of showing the love that was consuming her. It was a great -comfort, and, at the same time, a great pain. She wrote at great -length, confusedly, with the disorder and the monotony of a spirit -in distress; and as she wrote she would repeat her written phrases -aloud, as if he were present, and could respond. She wrote thrilling -with passion, and her cheeks burned. But, after she had committed her -letters to the post, she would wish them back, they seemed so cold, -so absurd, so grotesque, and she cursed the moment in which she had -put pen to paper. - -Cesare Dias never answered her. How could she expect him to, indeed? -Had he not torn her first letters up, under her eyes? - -Whenever his servant brought him one of Anna's letters he received -it with a movement of impatience. He was not altogether displeased, -however. He read them with a calm judicial mind, amused at their -"rhetoric," and forbore to answer them. He went less frequently to -her house than formerly. They were rarely alone together now. But -sometimes it happened that they were; and then, observing her pale -face, her eyes red from weeping, he asked: "What is it? Why do you go -on like this?" - -"What do you wish me to do?" she returned. - -"I want you to be merry, to laugh." - -"That--that is impossible," she said, drooping her eyes to hide the -tears in them. - -And Dias, fearing a scene, was silent. - -He was a man of much self-control, but he confessed to himself that -he would not be able, as she was, to bear an unrequited love with -patience. - -Anna was a woman, a woman in the full sense of the word. She had -hoped to win his heart; but now she relinquished hope. And one day, -in May, she wrote him a letter of farewell; she would never write -again; it was useless, useless. She bade him farewell; she said she -would like to go away, go away from Naples to Sorrento, to the Villa -Caterina, where her mother had loved and died. - -She begged Laura and Stella to take her to Sorrento. And Stella wrote -to Dias to ask his permission. He replied at once, saying he thought -the change of air would be capital for Anna. They had best leave at -once. He could not call to bid them good-bye, but he would soon come -to see his dear girls at the Villa. - -Stella said: "Dias has written to me." - -"When?" asked Anna. - -"Yesterday. He says he can't come to bid us good-bye, he's too busy." - -"Of course--too busy. Will you give me the letter?" - -"It's a very kind letter," said Stella. She saw that Anna's hand was -trembling as it held the white paper. Anna did not return it. - -"Dias is very kind," said Anna. - -They left Naples on the last day of May. - -When they reached the villa, the two girls went directly to their -mother's room. Laura opened the two windows that looked out upon -the sea and let in the sunlight, and she moved from corner to -corner, taking note of the dust on the furniture. Anna knelt at the -praying-desk, above which hung a cross, an image of the Virgin, and a -miniature of her mother. - -Laura asked: - -"Are you going to stay here?" - -Anna did not answer. - -"When you come away bring me the key," said the wise Minerva, and -went off, softly closing the door behind her. - -"Where is Anna?" asked Stella. - -"She is still up there," said Laura. - -"What is she doing?" - -"Weeping, or praying, or thinking. I don't know." - -"Poor Anna," sighed Stella. - -How long did Anna remain on her knees before the image of the Virgin -and the portrait of her mother? No one disturbed her. She kept -murmuring: "Oh, Holy Virgin! Oh, my mother!" alternately. - -When she came away, having closed the windows and locked the door, -she was so pale that Stella said: - -"You have stayed up there too long. It has done you harm." - -"No, no," Anna answered; "I am very well; I am so much better. I am -glad we have come here. I should like to live here always." - -But Stella was not reassured. And at night the thought of her pupil -troubled her and would not let her sleep. Sometimes she would get up -and go to the door of Anna's room. There was always a light burning -within. Two or three times she had entered; Anna lay motionless on -her bed, with her eyes closed. Then Stella had put out the light. - -"Why do you leave your light burning at night?" she asked Anna one -day. - -"Because I am afraid of the dark." - -Thereupon Stella had prepared a little lamp for her, with a shade of -opalescent crystal that softened its light; and almost every night -Stella would go to Anna's room to see whether she was asleep. Her -pale face in the green rays of the lamp had the semblance of a wreck -slumbering at the bottom of the sea. Sometimes, hearing Stella's -footsteps, Anna opened her eyes and smiled upon her; then relapsed -into her stupor. For it was not sleep; it was a sort of bodily -and mental torpor that kept her motionless and speechless. Stella -returned to her own room, in no wise reassured. And what most worried -this good woman was the long visit which Anna made every day to the -room of her dead mother. - -The villa was delightful during these first weeks of the summer, with -its fragrant garden, its big, airy, cheerful, luxurious apartments, -its splendid view of the sea. In the cool and perfumed mornings, in -the evenings that palpitated with starlight, every window and balcony -had its special fascination. But Anna saw and felt nothing of all -this; her mother's room alone attracted her. There she passed long -hours kneeling beside the bed, or seated at a window, silent, gazing -off at the sea, with a white expressionless face. Sometimes Stella -came to the door and called: - -"Anna--Anna!" - -"Here I am," she answered, starting out of her reverie. - -"Come away; it is late." - -"I am coming." - -But she did not move; it was necessary to call her again and again. - -Her stations there exhausted her. She would return from them with -dark circles under her eyes, her lips colourless, the line of her -profile sharpened and accentuated. - -Stella felt a great pity for her, a great longing to be of help -to her. She tried to persuade her to cut short her vigils in her -mother's room. - -"You ought not to stay so long. It is bad for you." - -"No, no," Anna answered. "If you knew the peace I find there." - -"But a young girl like you ought to wish for the excitements of life, -not the peace." - -"There are no more flowers for Margaret," quoted Anna, going to the -window and looking towards the sea. - -During the whole month of June, a lovely month at Sorrento, where the -mornings are warm and the evenings fresh, Anna fell away visibly in -health and spirits. Laura and Stella did not interfere with her, but -it saddened them to witness her decline. Stella's anxiety was almost -motherly. When she saw Anna's pale, peaked face, when she noticed -her transparent hands, a voice from within called to her that she -must do something for the poor girl. - -One day she said, "Signor Dias has promised to come here for a visit. -But he's delaying a little. Perhaps he'll come for the bathing -season." - -"You will see. He'll not come at all," replied Anna, her eyes -suddenly filling with tears. - -"He's so kind, and he has promised. He will come." - -"I don't believe it," Anna answered sadly. - -Indeed, he neither came nor wrote. The first fortnight of July had -passed; the bathing season had already begun. Sorrento was full -of people. In the evening, till late into the night, from every -window, from every balcony, and from the big brilliantly lighted -drawing-rooms of the hotels, came the sounds of singing and dancing, -the tinkling of mandolines, the laughter of women--a gay, passionate, -summer music. The villas were protected from the sun by blue and -white striped awnings, which fluttered in the afternoon breeze like -the sails of ships. At night the moon bathed houses, country, and -sea in a radiance dazzling as snow. Anna, in the midst of all this -merriment, this health and beauty, felt only the more profoundly a -great longing to end her life. It was seldom now that she so much as -moved from one room to another. In the evening, when Stella and Laura -would go out to call upon their friends, Anna would seat herself in -an easy-chair on the terrace of the Villa, and fix her eyes upon the -sky, where the Milky Way trembled in light. And on the sea beyond -her, people were singing in boats, or sending up fireworks from -yachts. Round about her sounded the thousand voices of the glorious -summer night, voices of joy, voices of passion. Anna neither saw nor -heard. - -But in Stella's face she could not help noticing an expression of -sympathy which seemed to say, "I have divined--I have guessed." And -in the kiss which Stella gave her, before going out, on the evening -of the 17th of July, Anna felt an even deeper affection than usual. -Laura and Stella were going to a dance at the Villa Victoria. - -"Be strong and you will be happy," Stella said, and her kiss seemed -meant as a promise of good news. - -But the poor child did not understand. She took Stella's words as one -of those vague efforts at consolation which people make for those who -are inconsolable, and shook her head, smiling sadly. Lovely in her -white frock, Laura too came and kissed her. And then she heard the -carriage drive away. Anna left the drawing-room and went out upon -the terrace. There was a full moon; its light was so brilliant one -might have read by it. There was something divinely beautiful in the -view--from the horizon to the arch of the sky, from the hills behind -her, covered with olives and oranges, to the sea before her. And she -felt all the more intensely the sorrow of her broken life. - -She lay back in her easy-chair, with her eyes closed. - -"Good evening," said Cesare Dias. - -She opened her eyes, but she could not speak. She could only look at -him, and she did so with such an expression of desolate joy that he -told himself: "This woman really loves me." - -He appeared to be very thoughtful. He drew up a chair, and sat down -next to her. - -"Are you surprised to see me, Anna? Didn't I promise to come?" - -"I thought--that you had forgotten. It is so easy to forget." - -"I always keep my promise," he declared. - -When had she heard him speak like this before, with this voice, this -inflexion--when? Ah, she remembered: when she was ill, when they -thought she was going to die. So it was pity for one threatened with -death that had brought him to Sorrento; it was pity that banished its -habitual irony from his voice. - -"The air of Sorrento hasn't cured you," he said, bending a little to -look at her. - -"It hasn't cured me. It has cured me of nothing. I think I shall -never be cured. There is no country in the world that can cure me." - -"There is only one doctor who can do you any good--that doctor is -yourself." - -He opened his silver cigarette-case, took out a cigarette, and lit it. - -She watched the vacillating flame of his match, and for a moment did -not speak. - -"It is easy to say that," she went on finally, with a feeble voice. -"But you know I am a weak creature. That is why you have so much -compassion for me. I shall never be cured, Cesare." - -"Are you sure?" - -"I am sure. I have tried. My love has proved itself stronger than I. -It is destroying me. My heart can no longer endure it." - -He looked off into the clear air of the night, watching the spiral of -his cigarette smoke. - -"And all those beautiful spiritual promises," he said, "that -wonderful structure of abnegation, of sacrifice, of unrequited love, -has come to nothing! Those plans for the future, which you conceived -in such lofty unselfishness, have failed?" - -"Failed, failed," she exclaimed, with a sigh, gazing up at the starry -sky, as if to reproach it with her own unhappiness. "All that I -wrote to you was absurd, a passing illusion. All my plans were based -upon absurdities. Perhaps there are people in the world who are so -perfectly made that they can be contented to love and not be loved -in return; they are fortunate, they are noble; they live only for -others; they are purity incarnate. But I am a miserable, selfish -woman, nothing else; I have expected too much; and I am dying of my -selfishness, of my pride." - -She raised herself in her chair, grasping its arms nervously with her -hands, and shaking her beautiful head, wasted by grief. - -He was silent. He threw away his cigarette, which had gone out. - -The soft moonlight covered all things. - -"I am so earthly," she went on. "I have prayed for a better nature, -for an angelic heart, raised above all human desires, that I might -simply love you, and wish for nothing else. I have exhausted myself -with prayers and tears, trying thus to forget that you could not -care for me. I have forbidden myself the great comfort of writing -to you. I left Naples, and came here, far from you--from you who -were, who are my light, my life. In vain, I have passed whole days -here, praying to my mother and to the Madonna to free me from these -terrible, heavy, earthly chains that bind me to that longing to be -loved, and that are killing me. No use, no use! My prayers have not -been answered. I have come away from them with a greater ardour, -a more intense longing, than ever. I am a woman. I am a woman -who doesn't know how to lift herself above womanly things, who, -womanlike, longs to be loved, and who will never, never be consoled -for the love she cannot have." - -After a long pause, he asked, "And what do you wish me to do, Anna?" - -"Nothing." - -"Nothing?" - -"There is nothing to be done. All is ended; all is over. Or, rather, -nothing has ever been begun." - -"Anna, I assure you, it grieves me to see you suffer." - -"Thank you. But what can you do for me? It is all due to my own -folly. I admit that I am unbalanced, extravagant. I know it. I am -paying dearly for my folly; ah, the expiation is hard. It is all due -to my one mistake, my one fault. Everybody is very kind to me, more -than kind. But I have sinned, and I must expiate my sin." - -"But how is it all to end?" he cried. - -"Do you know what the simplest solution would be?" - -"What?" - -"My death. Ah, to rest! to rest for ever, under the earth, in a dark -grave!" - -"Don't say that. People don't die of love." - -"Yes that is true. There is indeed no recognised disease called -_love_. Neither ancient nor modern doctors are acquainted with it; -they have never discovered it in making their autopsies. But love is -such a subtle deceiver! It is at the bottom of all mortal illnesses. -It is at the bottom of those wasting declines from which people -suffer for years, people who have loved too much, who have not been -loved enough. It is in those maladies of the heart, where the heart -bursts with emotion or dries up with despair. It is in those long -anæmias which destroy the body fibre by fibre, sapping its energies. -It is in that nervousness which makes people shiver with cold and -burn with insupportable heat. Oh, no one dies suddenly of love. We -die slowly, slowly, of troubles that have so many names, but are -really all just this--that we can endure to love no longer, and that -we are not loved. Who will ever know the right name of the illness -from which I shall die? The doctor will write a scientific word on -paper, to account for my death to you, to Laura, to Stella. But you -know, you at least, that I shall die because you do not love me." - -"Calm yourself, Anna." - -"I am calm. I have no longer the shadow of a hope. But I am calm, -believe me. I have to tell you these things because they well up from -my soul of their own accord. I am an absolutely desperate woman, but -I am calm, I shall always be calm. Don't answer me. Everything that -you can say I have already said to myself. All is ended. Why should I -not be calm?" - -"But, if you no longer hope for anything, then you have hoped for -something. For what?" he asked, with a certain curiosity. - -"Oh, heavens!" she cried. "That you should ask me that!" - -"Tell me, Anna. You see that I ask it with sympathy, with lively -sympathy." - -"But you must have forgotten what love is like, if you ask me to tell -you what its hopes are," she exclaimed. "One hopes for everything -when one loves. From the moment when I first trembled at the sound -of your voice, from the moment when first the touch of your hand on -mine thrilled me with delight, from the moment when first the words -you spoke, whether they were hard or kind, scornful or friendly, -seemed to engrave themselves upon my spirit, from the moment when I -first realised that I was yours--yours for life, from that moment I -have hoped that you might love me. From that moment it has been my -dream that you might love me, with a love equal to my own, with a -self-surrender equal to my own, with an absolute concentration of all -your heart and soul, as I love you. That has been the sublime hope -that my love has cherished." - -"It was an illusion," he said softly, looking off upon the broad -shining sea, bathed in the moonlight. - -"I know it. Why do you remind me of it? Why are we talking of it? My -soul had fallen into a torpor. But now you rouse me from it. My heart -throbs as if you had reopened its wound. Don't tell me again that you -don't care for me. I know it, I know it." - -"Anna, Anna, why do you torment yourself like this?" - -"Ah, yes, I have known it a long while now. My great hope died -little by little, day by day, as I saw how unlike me you were, how -far from me; as I understood your contempt for me, your pity; as -I realised that there were secrets in your life which I could not -know; as I perceived that the differences of our ages and tastes -had bred differences of feeling. In a hundred ways, voluntarily and -involuntarily, you showed me that love did not exist for you, either -that you would never love, or, at any rate, that you would never love -me. I read my sentence written in letters of flame on my horizon. -And yet, you see, in spite of the blows that fate had overwhelmed -me with, I was not resigned. I told myself that a young and ardent -woman could not thus miserably lose herself and her love. I thought -that there was a way of saving herself which ought to be tried, a -humble way, but one that I could pursue in patience. Shall I tell you -my other dream?" - -"Yes, tell me." - -"Well, I dreamed that you would let me unite my weak and stormy youth -to your warm and serene maturity, in such a manner as to complete -more profoundly and more intimately the work of protection that -Francesco Acquaviva had confided to you at his death. You saved me -at Pompeii. That seemed to sanction a supreme act of devotion on my -part. My dream was simple and modest. I would love you with all my -strength, but in silence; I would live with you, loving and following -you like a fond shadow. Every hour, every minute, I would be able to -offer you unspoken, but eloquent proofs of my love. I would be your -satellite, circling round you, drinking in the light of my sun. I -would watch my chance to do for you, to serve you, to make you happy. -And in this way, never asking for gratitude, asking for nothing, I -would spend my life, to its last day, blessing you, worshipping you, -for your kindness in letting me be near you, in letting me love you. -Ah, what a vision! It would be worthy of me, to make such a sacrifice -of every personal desire; and worthy of you to lift a poor girl up to -the happiness of seeing you every day, of sharing your home and your -name." - -"You would like me to marry you?" asked Dias. - -"Your wife, your mistress, your friend, your servant--whatever you -wish will suffice for me. To be where you are, to live my life out -near to you----" - -"I am old," he said, coldly, bitterly. - -"I am young, but I am dying, Cesare." - -"Old age is a sad thing, Anna. It freezes one's blood and one's -heart." - -"What does it matter? I don't ask you to love me. I only want to love -you." - -"Will you never ask it of me?" - -"Never." - -"Promise." - -"I promise." - -"By whatever you hold most sacred, will you promise it?" - -"By Heaven that hears me, by the blessed souls of my mother and -father who watch over me; by my affection for my sister Laura; by the -holiest thing in my heart, that is, by my love for you, I promise it, -I swear it, I will never ask you to love me." - -"You won't complain of me, and of my coldness?" - -"I will never complain. I will regard you as my greatest benefactor." - -"You will let me live as I like?" - -"You will be the master. You shall dispose of your life and of mine." - -"You will let me go and come, come and go, without finding fault, -without recriminations?" - -"When you go out I will await in patience the happy hour of your -return." - -He was silent for a moment. There was another question on his mind, -and he hesitated to ask it. But with burning eyes, with hands clasped -imploringly, she waited for him to go on. - -"You won't torment me with jealousy?" he asked at last. - -"Oh, heavens!" she cried, stretching out her arms and beating her -brow with her hands; "must I endure that also?" - -"As you wish," he said, coldly. "I see that I displease and offend -you. I am making demands that are beyond your strength. Well, let us -drop the subject." - -And he rose as if to go away. She moved towards him and took his hand. - -"No, no; don't leave me. For pity's sake stay a little longer. Let -us talk--listen to me. You ask me not to be jealous; I'll not be -jealous. At least, you'll not see my jealousy. Do you wish me to -visit the woman you're in love with, or have been in love with, or -the woman who's in love with you? Do you wish me to receive the women -who are your friends? I'll do it--I'll do everything. Put me to the -most dreadful trial--I'll endure it. Ask me to go to the furthest -pass a soul and body can reach--I'll do it for you." - -"I wish to be free, heart-free, that is all," he said, firmly. - -"As you are to-day, so you will always be--free in heart," she -responded. - -"Listen to me, Anna, and understand me clearly. For a moment try -to escape from your own personality, forget that you are you, and -that you love me. For a moment consider calmly and carefully the -present and the future. Anna, I am old, and you are young; and the -discrepancy of our ages which now seems trifling to you, in ten -years' time will seem terrible, for I can only decline, while you -will grow to maturity. In your imagination you have conceived an -ideal of me which doesn't correspond to the truth, and which the -future will certainly correct, to your sorrow. Between our characters -and our temperaments there is a profound gulf; we have no reason to -believe that the future can close it up. If I am making a sacrifice, -as I confess I am, in speaking to you thus, it is certain that you -would make a more painful and a more lasting one in living with me. -Think of it, think of it. Think of my age, of your illusions which -must inevitably be destroyed, of our mutual sacrifice. Anna, there is -still time." - -She looked at him, surprised to hear him speak in this earnest way, -the man who was accustomed to dominate all his own emotions. He was -really moved; his brow was knitted; and on it, for the first time, -Anna could read a secret distress. There was something almost like -shyness in his eyes; he seemed less distant, less strong perhaps, -than he had ever seemed to her before, but more human, more like -other people, who suffer and weep. - -"Anna, Anna," he went on, "put aside all selfishness, and be -yourself the judge. Judge whether I ought to consent to what you -wish. I have told you cruelly, brutally, what I shall expect from you -in return from my sacrifice. I have repeated to you again and again -what a grave step it is that you propose. Now, my dear child be calm, -and judge for yourself." - -She was leaning with her two hands on the parapet of the terrace, and -kept her eyes cast down. - -"But why," she asked slowly, in a low voice, "why are you -willing--you who are so wise, so cold, who despise all passion, as -you do--why are you willing to make this sacrifice? Who has persuaded -you? Who has won you?" - -"I am willing because you have told me that there is no other way of -saving you; because Stella Martini has written to me saying that I -ought to save you; because I myself feel that I ought to save you." - -"It is for pity then that you are willing to do this thing?" - -"You have said it," he replied, not wishing to repeat the unkind word. - -"God bless you for your pity," she said humbly, crossing her hands as -in prayer. - -There was a deep silence. He stood with his head bowed, thinking, and -waiting for her to speak. She was looking at the sky as if she wished -to read there the word of her destiny. But in her heart and in her -mind, from the sky, and from the glorious landscape, only one word -could she, would she, hear. - -"Well, Anna, what have you to say?" - -"Why do you ask? I love you, and without you I should die. Anything -is better than death. You are my life." - -"Then you will be my wife and my friend," he said resolutely. - -"Thank you, love," and she knelt before him. - - * * * * * - -When he had gone away, she bent down and kissed devotedly the wall of -the terrace, where he had leaned, speaking to her. - -And then she went to each of the big vases that stood in a row along -the terrace, and picked all the flowers that grew in them, the roses, -the geraniums, the jasmine-buds, and pressed them to her bosom in -a mass, because they had listened to her talk with him. And before -re-entering the house, she looked again, with brilliant eyes full of -happiness, upon the sea and the sky and the wide moonlit landscape. - -Within the house every one was asleep. The servant who was sitting -up for Laura and Stella nodded in the anti-chamber. Anna was quite -alone, and her heart danced for joy. - -Silently she passed through the house, and entered her mother's room. - -"Oh, Mamma, Mamma, it is you who have done this," she said. - - - END OF PART I. - - - - - PART II - - - - - I. - -Anna wore a pink dressing-gown of soft wool, with a low-cut sailor's -collar and monk's-sleeves, so that her throat and wrists, round and -pale with the warm pallor of ivory, were left uncovered. Her hair was -drawn up in a rich mass on the top of her head, and confined by two -or three pins of yellow tortoise-shell. Her black eyes were radiant -with youth and love. - -She opened the door of her room. - -She had a little clock in a case of blue velvet lightly ornamented -with silver; Cesare had given it to her during their honeymoon, and -she always kept it by her. She looked at this, and saw that it was -already eleven. The April sunshine poured merrily into the room, -brightening the light colours of the upholsteries, touching with fire -her bronze jewel-case, her hanging lamp of ancient Venetian wrought -iron, and the silver frame of her looking-glass, and giving life to -the blue forget-me-nots on the white ground of her carpet. - -It was eleven. And from the other end of the apartment (where, with -Stella Martini she occupied two or three rooms) Laura had sent to ask -at what hour they were to start for the Campo di Marte. Anna had -told the servant to answer that they would start soon after noon, and -that she was getting ready. - -For a moment she stood still in the middle of her room, undecided -whether or not to move in the direction that her feet seemed inclined -to take of their own will--pretty little feet, in black slippers -embroidered with pearls. - -Then she opened the door. - -A short passage separated her room from her husband's. Her husband's -room had a second door, letting into a small hall, whence he could -leave the house without Anna's knowing it, without her hearing so -much as a footstep. - -She crossed the passage slowly, and leaned against the door, not to -listen, but as if she lacked courage to knock. At last, very softly, -she gave two quick raps with her knuckles. - -There was a minute of silence. - -She would never have dared to knock a second time, already penitent -for having ventured to disturb her lord and master. - -A cold quiet voice from within inquired, "Who is it?" - -"It's I, Cesare," she said, bending down, as if to send the words -through the keyhole. - -"Wait a moment, please." - -Patiently, with her bejewelled hand on the knob, and the train of -her pink dressing-gown heaped about her feet, she waited. He never -allowed her to come in at once, when she knocked at his door, he -seemed to take a pleasure in prolonging and subduing her impatience. - -Presently he opened the door. He was already dressed for the Campo di -Marte, in the appropriate costume of a lover of horse-racing. - -"Ah, my dear lady," he said, bowing with that fine gallantry which he -always showed to women, "aren't you dressed yet?" - -And as he spoke he looked at her with admiring eyes. She was so -young and fresh, and living, with her beautiful round throat, her -flower-like arms issuing from her wide monk's sleeves, and her tiny -feet in their black slippers, that he took her hand, drew her to him, -and kissed her on the lips. A single kiss; but her eyes lightened -softly, and her red lips remained parted. - -He stretched himself in an easy-chair, near his writing-desk, and -puffed a cigarette. All the solid and simple yet elegant furniture -of the big room which he occupied, was impregnated with that odour -of tobacco, which solitary smokers create round themselves like an -atmosphere. - -Anna sat down, balancing herself on the arm of a chair covered with -Spanish leather. One of her feet played with the train of her gown. -She looked about, marvelling as she always did, at the vast room -a little bleak with its olive plush, its arms, its bookcase, its -handful of books in brown bindings, and here and there a bit of -carved ivory or a bright-coloured neck-tie, and everywhere the smell -of cigarette-smoke. His bed was long and narrow, with a head-piece -of carved wood; its coverlet of old brocade fell to the floor in -folds, and mixed itself with the antique Smyrna carpets that Cesare -Dias had brought home from a journey in the East. Attached to the -brown head-piece there was a big ivory crucifix, a specimen of -Cinquecento sculpture, yellow with age. The whole room had a certain -severe appearance, as if here the gallant man of the world gave -himself to solitary and austere reflections, while his conscience -took the upper hand and reminded him of the seriousness of life. - -The big drawers of his writing desk surely contained many deep and -strange secrets. Anna had often looked at them with burning, eager -eyes, the eyes of one anxious to penetrate the essence of things; but -she had never approached them, fearing their mysteries. Only, every -day, after breakfast, when her husband was away, she had put a bunch -of fresh, fragrant flowers in a vase of Satsuma, whose yellow surface -was crossed by threads of gold, and placed them on the dark old desk, -which thereby gained a quality of youth and poetry. He treated the -flowers with characteristic indifference. Now and then he would wear -one of them in his button-hole; oftener he seemed unconscious of -their existence. For a week at a time jonquils would follow violets -and roses would take the place of mignonette in the Satsuma vase, but -Cesare would not deign to give them a look. This morning, though, he -had a tea-rose bud in his button-hole, a slightly faded one that he -had plucked from the accustomed nosegay; and Anna smiled at seeing -it there. - -"At what time are we going to the races?" she asked, remembering the -business that had brought her to his room. - -"In about an hour," he answered, looking up from a memorandum-book in -which he was setting down certain figures with a pencil. - -"You are coming with us, aren't you?" - -"Yes. And yet--we shall look like a Noah's ark. Perhaps I'd better go -with Giulio on the four-in-hand." - -"No, no; come with us. When we are there you can go where you like." - -"Naturally," he said, making another entry in his note-book. - -She looked at him with shining eyes; but he continued his -calculations, and paid her no attention. Only presently he asked: - -"Aren't you going to dress?" - -"Yes, yes," she answered softly. - -And slowly she went away. - -While her maid was helping her to put on her English costume of -nut-coloured wool, she was wondering whether her husband would like -it; she never dared to ask him what his tastes were in such matters; -she tried to divine them. Before dressing, she secured round her -throat by a chain an antique silver reliquary, which enclosed, -however, instead of the relics of a saint, the only love letters -that he had ever written to her, two little notes that had given her -unspeakable pain when she had received them. And as she moved about -her room at her toilet, she cast repeated glances at his portrait, -which hung over her writing-table. Round her right arm she wore six -little golden bracelets with pearls suspended from them; and graven -upon each bracelet was one letter of his name, Cesare. Her right hand -gleamed with many rings set with precious stones; but on her left -hand her wedding-ring shone alone. - -When she had adjusted her veil over her English felt hat, trimmed -with swallows' wings, she looked at herself in the glass, and -hesitated. She was afraid she wouldn't please him; her dress was too -simple; it was an ordinary morning street costume. - -Suddenly the door opened, and Laura appeared. As usual, she wore -white, a frock of soft white wool, exquisitely delicate and graceful. -Her hat was covered with white feathers, that waved with every -breath of air. And in her hands she held a bunch of beautiful fresh -tea-roses. - -"Oh, how pretty you are!" cried Anna. "And who gave you those lovely -roses?" - -"Cesare." - -"Give me one--give me one." And she put out her hand. - -She put it into her button-hole, inexpressibly happy to possess a -flower that he had brought to the house and presented to her sister. - -"When did you see Cesare?" she asked, taking up her purse, across -which _Anna Dias_ was stamped, and her sunshade. - -"I haven't seen him. He sent these flowers to my room." - -"How kind he is." - -"Very kind," repeated her sister, like an echo. - -They went into the drawing-room and waited for Cesare. He came -presently, drawing on his gloves. He was somewhat annoyed at having -to go to the races with his family--he who had hitherto always gone -as a bachelor, on a friend's four-in-hand, or alone in his own -phæton. His bad humour was only partially concealed. - -"Ah, here is the charming Minerva!" he cried, perceiving Laura. "How -smart we are! A proper spring toilet, indeed. Good, good! Well, let's -be off." - -Anna had hoped for a word from him too, but she got none. Cesare -had seen her dress of nut-coloured wool, and he deemed it unworthy -of remark. For a moment all the beauty of the April day was -extinguished, and she descended the stairs with heavy steps. But -out of doors the air was full of light and gaiety; the streets were -crowded with carriages and with pedestrians; on every balcony there -were ladies in light colours, with red parasols; and a million -scintillating atoms danced in every ray of sunshine. Anna told -herself she must bear in patience the consequences of the error she -had made in putting on that ugly brown frock. Laura's face was lovely -as a rose under her white hat; and Anna rejoiced in her sister's -beauty, and in the admiring glances that everybody gave her. - -"It's going to be beastly hot," said Cesare, as they drove into -the Toledo, where a crowd had gathered to watch the procession of -carriages. - -"The Grand Stand will be covered. We'll find a good place," said Anna. - -"Oh, I'm to leave you when we get there," he reminded her. He was -determined to put an end to this family scene as soon as he could. "I -must leave a clear field for Laura's adorers. I give place to them -because I am old." - -Laura smiled. - -"So, Anna, I'll leave you to your maternal duties. I recommend you to -keep an especial eye upon Luigi Caracciolo--upon him in particular." - -"What do you mean?" Anna asked absently. - -"Nothing, dear." - -"I thought----" she began, without finishing her sentence. - -Bows and smiles and words of greeting were reaching them from every -side. They passed or overtook numberless people whom they knew, -some in carriages, some on foot. Cesare was inwardly mortified by -the conjugal exhibition of himself that he was obliged to make, and -looked with secret envy at his bachelor friends. - -But his regret was sharpest when a handsome four-in-hand dashed past, -with Giulio Carafa on the box and the Contessa d'Alemagna beside him. -That dark, vivacious, blue-eyed lady wore a costume of pale yellow -silk, and a broad straw hat trimmed with cream-coloured feathers. -She carried a bunch of lilac in her hands, lilac that lives but -a single day in our ardent climate, and is rich with intoxicating -fragrance. All the men on Carafa's coach bowed to Dias, and the -Contessa d'Alemagna smiled upon him and waved her flowers; and his -heart was bitten by a great desire to be there, with them, instead of -here, in this stupid domestic party. - -He was silent; and Anna's eyes filled with tears, for she understood -what his silence meant. At the sight of her tears his irritation -increased. - -"Well, what is it?" he asked, looking at her with his dominating -coldness. - -"Nothing," she said, turning her head away, to hide her emotion. - -That question and answer were equivalent to one of the long and -stormy discussions that are usual between husbands and wives. Between -them such discussions never took place. Their life was regulated -according to the compact they had made on that moonlit night at -Sorrento; she realised now that what had then seemed to her a way -of being saved was only a way of dying more slowly; but he had kept -his word, and she must keep hers. He had married her; she must not -reproach him. Only sometimes her sorrow appeared too plainly; then he -never failed to find a word or a glance to remind her of her promise. - -To-day, for the thousandth time, he regretted the sacrifice he had -made, and cursed his generosity. - -The whole distance from the Toledo to the Campo di Marte was passed -in silence. As they approached the Reclusorio, Luigi Caracciolo -drove by them with his tandem. He bowed cordially to them. Anna -dropped her eyes; Laura smiled upon him. - -"What a handsome fellow!" exclaimed Dias, with the sincere admiration -of one man of the world for another. - -"Very handsome," said Laura, who was accustomed to speak her girlish -mind with sufficient freedom. - -"He pleases you, eh?" inquired Cesare, with a smile. - -"He pleases me," she said, with her habitual freedom and her habitual -indifference. - -"It's a pity he was never able to take Anna's fancy," Cesare added, -with enigmatical irony. - -"I hate handsome youths," said Anna, proudly. - -"You wouldn't be the impetuous woman that you are, my dear, if you -didn't hate everything that other people like. We've got a creature -of passion in the family, Laura," he said, with a frank expression of -scorn. - -"Yes," assented the cruel sister. - -Anna smiled faintly in disdain. Again the beauty of the day was -extinguished for her; the warm April afternoon was like a dark -winter's evening. - -The rose that Laura had given her had fallen to pieces, shedding its -petals on the carriage floor. Anna would have liked to gather them -all up and preserve them. The most she could do, however, was to take -a single one that lay in her lap, and put it into the opening of her -glove, against the palm of her hand. - -At the entrance of the racing-grounds they met the Contessa -d'Alemagna again. She smiled graciously upon Anna and Laura. Anna -tried to smile in return; Laura bowed coldly. - -"Don't you like the Contessa d'Alemagna?" asked Cesare, as he -conducted his wife and sister-in-law to their places in the members' -stand. - -"No," said Laura. - -"You're wrong," said he. - -"That may be. But she's antipathetic to me." - -"I like her," said Anna, feebly. - -Cesare found places for them, and gave them each an opera-glass. Then -he stood up and said to Anna: - -"You will be all right here?" - -"Perfectly." - -"Nothing I can do for you?" - -"Nothing." - -"I'll come back for the third race. I'm going now to bet. Good-bye." - -And he went off with the light step of a liberated man. Anna watched -him as he crossed the turf towards the weighing-stand. - -She was surrounded by acquaintances, and they were all talking -together. Being a bride, she received a good deal of attention; Dias -was popular, and his popularity reflected itself upon her. Besides, -people found her interesting, with her black, passionate eyes, the -pure oval of her face, and her fresh red lips. - -Luigi Caracciolo came up to where the sisters were seated. - -"Cesare has deserted you?" he asked, jestingly. - -"He's gone to bet. He'll soon come back," said Anna. - -"He's betting with the Contessa d'Alemagna," suggested Laura, with -one of those perverse smiles which contrasted so oddly with the -purity of her face. - -"Then he'll not come back so soon," said Luigi, sitting down. - -"Have you never seen the races before?" he asked. - -"No, I have never seen them," said Anna. - -"It's rather a tiresome sight," said he, pulling his blonde -moustaches. - -"It's interesting to see the people," said Anna. - -"It's the crowd that always gives its interest to a scene," said he, -with an intonation of profound thought. - -Laura was looking through her opera-glass. "There's Cesare," she -cried suddenly. - -Cesare was walking and talking with the beautiful Contessa -d'Alemagna, and two other men, who walked in front of them, -occasionally turned and took part in the conversation. As he passed -his wife and sister, he looked up and bowed. Anna responded, smiling, -but her smile was a forced and weary one. - -Luigi Caracciolo, feigning not to have noticed this incident, said to -her: "That's a charming dress you're wearing. It's an inspiration." - -"Do you like it?" she asked, with a thankful look. - -"Yes. I admire these English fashions. I think our women are wrong to -go to a horse-race dressed as if for a garden-party. It's not smart." - -He took her sunshade and toyed with it, reading the inscription, -engraved on its silver handle. - -"'_Attendre pour atteindre._'[A] Is that your motto?" he inquired. - -"Yes." - -"Have you never had another?" - -"Never." - -"It's a wise one," he remarked. "It's a fact that everything comes at -last to those who know how to wait." - -"Alas! not everything, not everything," she murmured, sadly. - -There was a burst of applause from the multitude. The second race was -over, and the favourite had won, a Naples-bred horse. People crowded -about the bookmakers, to receive the value of their bets. - -"Perhaps Cesare has won," said Laura. "He was always talking about -_Amarilli_." - -"Cesare always wins," said Luigi. - -"He is not named Cesare[B] for nothing," said Anna, proudly. - -"And like the great Julius all his victories were -won after he had turned forty--especially those in Germany."[C] - -But Anna did not hear this malicious pleasantry. She was thinking of -other things. - -By and by her husband came to her. - -"Are you enjoying it, Anna?" he asked. - -"Yes, I am enjoying it." - -"And you, Laura?" - -"Oh, immensely," she answered, coldly. - -"Would you like to see the weighing ground?" - -"Yes," she said, taking her shawl and her sunshade. - -"I can't take _you_," said Cesare to his wife, who was gazing -imploringly at him. "We should look ridiculous." - -But she did not appear resigned. - -"We should be ridiculous," he repeated imperiously. "Thank goodness, -we're not perpetually on our wedding journey." - -They went away, leaving her with a pain in her heart which she felt -was killing her. She half closed her eyes, and only one idea was -clear in the sorrowful confusion of her mind--that her husband was -right. She had broken their agreement; she had promised never to -entreat him, never to reproach him. It was weak and wicked of her, -she told herself, to have consented to such an agreement--a compact -by which her love, her pride, and her dignity were alike bound to -suffer. She had made another great mistake when she did that, -and this time an irreparable mistake. - -"Ah, you are alone?" said Luigi Caracciolo, coming up again. - -"Alone." - -"Something is troubling you. What is it?" - -"I am bored; and a person who is bored bores others." - -"Let us bore ourselves together, Signora Dias. That will be -diverting. I have always wished to bore myself with you, you know." - -She shook her head, to forbid his referring to the past. - -"Ah, you won't consent? You're very cruel." - -She put her opera-glass to her eyes, and looked off across the course. - -"If you're going to treat me as badly as this, you'd better send me -away," he said, with some feeling. - -"The stand is free to all the world," she answered, tormented by the -thought that if her husband should come back, he might imagine that -she was glad to talk with Caracciolo. - -"You are a Domitian in woman's clothes," he cried. "Ah, you women! -When you don't like a man you destroy him straightway." - -She did not hear him; or, hearing, she did not understand. - -"You are too high up for me," he went on. "To descend to my level -would be impossible for you and unworthy of you. It's equally -impossible for me to rise to yours." - -"You are quite mistaken. I'm anything rather than a superior being. -I'm a human earthly woman, like all others--more than others." - -"Then why do you suffer?" - -"Because love is very bitter." - -"What love?" - -"All love. It is bitterer than aloes, bitterer than gall, bitter in -life and in death." - -There was another outburst of applause, and the crowd began to move. -The races of the first day were over. - -Anna looked for her husband. He appeared presently, with Laura on his -arm. - -"You leave your wife to the most melancholy solitude," said -Caracciolo, laughing. - -"I was sure you would keep her company, you're such a true friend to -me," laughed Cesare. - -Caracciolo gave his arm to Anna. - -"In any case, it wasn't to render you a service," said Luigi. - -"I know your fidelity," said Dias. - -"You are my master." - -Neither of the ladies spoke. Anna gave herself up to the happiness -of having recovered her husband, of going away with him, of taking -him home. He seemed excited and pleased, as if he had enjoyed the -events of the afternoon without stopping to analyse their frivolity -and emptiness. He had amused himself in his usual way, forgetting for -the moment the subtle but constant annoyance of his marriage. He was -merry, and he showed his merriment by joking with Caracciolo, with -Laura, even with his wife. - -Anna was very happy. The long day had tired her. But now she felt -the warmth and comfort of his presence, and that compensated her for -her hours of abandonment. They had some difficulty finding their -carriage, but Cesare was not impatient. Caracciolo, meanwhile, was -looking for his own tranquilly, never for a moment neglecting his -chivalric duties. - -When their carriage was discovered, the two men helped the ladies -into it; and Cesare, standing beside it, disposed of their shawls and -their opera-glasses with the carefulness of a model husband, at the -same time exchanging a passing word or two with Caracciolo. - -Suddenly Cesare closed the carriage-door, and said to the -coachman--"Home." - -"Aren't you coming with us?" Anna asked in a low voice. - -"No. There's a place for me on Giulio Carafa's four-in-hand. I shall -get to Naples sooner than you will. The four-in-hand can go outside -the line." - -"Four-in-hands are very amusing," said Caracciolo, shaking hands with -the two women. - -"Shall we have a late dinner?" asked Anna. - -"Don't wait dinner for me. I am going to dine at the Contessa -d'Alemagna's, with Giulio Carafa and Marco Paliano." - -"Very well," said Anna. - -She watched Cesare and Luigi as they moved away, puffing their -cigarettes. Then she said to the coachman, "Drive home." - -During the long drive the sisters scarcely spoke. They were -accustomed to respect each other's hours of silence. A soft breeze -was blowing from the north. They were both a little pale. Perhaps it -was the spectacle of the return from the Campo di Marte, which made -them thoughtful; the many carriages, full of people who bore on their -faces the signs of happiness due to a fine day of sunshine, passed -in the open air, amid the thousand flattering coquetries of love and -fancy; the beautiful women, wrapped in their cloaks; the sort of -spiritual intoxication that glowed in the eyes of everybody. - -The streets were lined by an immense crowd of shop-keepers and -working-people, who made a holiday pleasure of watching the stream of -carriages; and another crowd looked down from the balconies of the -houses. - -Presently Anna leaned forward and took her shawl and wrapped it round -her shoulders. - -"Are you cold?" asked Laura, helping her. - -"Yes." - -Laura also put on her shawl; she, too, was cold. - -Luigi Caracciolo's tandem passed them. Anna did not see him. Laura -bowed. - -When they had reached the Piazza San Ferdinando, Anna asked: "Would -you like to drive about a little?" - -"No, let us go home." - -And when they were in the house, "We must go in to dinner," Laura -said. - -"I'm not going to dine. I have a headache," said Anna. - -At last she was alone. In her own room she threw aside her hat and -veil, her sunshade, her purse, her pocket-handkerchief; she fell into -an arm-chair, and was shaken by a storm of sobs and tears. - -From above her little writing-table Cesare's portrait seemed to smile -upon the flowers that were placed under it. - -She raised her eyes, and looked at his beautiful and noble face, -which appeared to glow with love and life. A great impulse of passion -rose in her heart; she took the portrait and kissed it, and bathed it -in her tears, murmuring, "my love, my love, why do you treat me like -this? Ah, I can only love you, love you; and you are killing me." - -Hours passed unnoticed by her. Some one came to her door and asked -whether she wished for a lamp; she answered, "No." - -By-and-bye she saw a white figure standing before her. She recognised -Laura. And she saw that Laura was weeping. She had never seen her -weep before. - -"You are crying. What are you crying for?" she asked. - -"Yes," answered Laura, vaguely, with a gesture. - -And they wept together. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[A] "Wait to win." In French in the original. - -[B] Cæsar. - -[C] Alemagna. A punning reference to the Contessa. - - - - - II. - -Cesare Dias came home one day towards six o'clock, in great good -humour. At dinner he found everything excellent, though it was his -habit to find everything bad. He ate with a hearty appetite, and -told countless amusing stories, of the sort that he reserved for -his agreeable moments. He joked with Laura, and with Anna; he even -complimented his wife upon her dress, a new one that she had to-day -put on for the first time. He succeeded in communicating his gaiety -to the two women. Anna looked at him with meek and tender eyes; and -as often as he smiled she smiled too. - -Laura, it is true, spoke little, but in her face shone that -expression of vivacity, of animation, which had characterised it for -some time past. She agreed with everything Cesare said, bowing her -head. - -After dinner they all passed into Anna's drawing-room. It was her -evening at home; and noticing that there were flowers in all the -vases--it was in June, just a year after their talk at Sorrento--and -seeing the silver samovar on the table, Cesare asked: "Are you -expecting people to-night, Anna?" - -"A few. Perhaps no one will come." - -"Ah, that's why you've got yourself up so smartly." - -"Did you fancy it was for you, that she had put on her new frock, -Cesare?" Laura asked, jestingly. - -"I was presumptuous enough to do so; and all presumptions are -delusions. I'll bet that Luigi Caracciolo is coming--the ever -faithful one." - -"I'm sure I don't know," said Anna, indifferently. - -"Oh, you hypocrite, Anna!" laughed Laura. - -"Hypocrite, hypocrite!" repeated Cesare, also laughing. "Come, I'll -warrant that the obstinate fidelity of Caracciolo has at last made -an impression. Admirable! He's been in love with you for a hundred -years." - -"Oh, Cesare, don't joke about such subjects," Anna begged, in pain. - -"You see, Laura, she is troubled." - -"She's troubled, it's true," affirmed Laura. - -"You're both of you heartless," Anna murmured. - -Cesare opened his cigarette case, and playfully offered a cigarette -to each of the ladies. - -"I don't smoke," said Laura. - -"Why don't you learn to?" - -"Smoke is bad for the teeth;" and she showed her own, shining like -those of Beatrice in the tale by Edgar Poe. - -"You're right, fair Minerva. Will you smoke, Anna?" - -"I don't smoke, either," she said, with a soft smile. - -"You ought to learn. It would be becoming to you. You're dark, you -have the Spanish type, and a _papelito_[D] would complete your charm." - -"I will learn, Cesare," she assented. - -"And what's more, smoke calms the nerves. You can't imagine the -soothing effect it has. Nothing is better to relieve our little -sorrows." - -"Give me a cigarette, then," she said at once. - -"Ah, you have little sorrows?" - -"Who knows!" she sighed, putting aside her cigarette. - -"You have no little sorrows, Laura?" asked Cesare. - -"Neither little ones nor big ones." - -"Who can boast of having never wept?" said Anna, with a melancholy -accent. - -"If we become sentimental, I shall take myself off," said Cesare. - -"No, no, don't go away," Anna prayed him. - -"I would remind you that we've got to pass our whole life-time -together," said he, ironically, knocking off the ash of his cigarette. - -"All our life-time, and more beyond it," said Anna, pensively. - -"And more beyond! It's a grave affair. I will think of it while I am -dressing, this evening." - -"Where are you going?" - -"To take a walk," he answered, rising. - -"Why don't you stay here?" she ventured to ask. - -"I can't. I'm obliged to go out." - -"Come home early, won't you?" - -"Early--yes," he consented, after a short hesitation. - -"I'll wait for you, Cesare." - -"Yes, yes. Good-night." - -He went off. - -Laura, according to her recent habit, had listened to this dialogue -with her eyes half closed, and biting her lips; she said nothing. -Whenever her sister and her brother-in-law exchanged a few -affectionate words (and, indeed, Cesare did no more than respond to -the affection of Anna), she assumed the countenance of a statue, -which neither feels nor hears nor sees; or else, she got up and left -the room noiselessly. Often Anna surprised on Laura's face a cynical -smile that appeared the antithesis of its extreme purity, the irony -of an icy virgin who is aware of the falsity and hollowness of love. - -This evening, when Cesare had left them, the sisters remained -together for a few minutes. But apparently both their minds -were absorbed in deep thought; at any rate they could not keep -up a conversation. Anna, in her lilac-coloured frock, lay in an -easy-chair, leaning her head on her hands, over which her black hair -seemed like a warrior's helmet. Laura was pulling and playing with -the fringe of her white dress. - -"I'm going; good night," she said suddenly. - -"Why do you go, Laura?" asked Anna, issuing from her reverie. - -"There's no use staying. People will be arriving." - -"But stay for that very reason. You will help me to endure their -visits." - -"Oh, that's a task above my strength," said the blonde and beautiful -Minerva. "Then, anyhow, it's you they come to see, my dear." - -"You'll be married some day yourself," said Anna, laughing. - -She was still in a pleasant mood--a reflection of Cesare's gaiety; -and then he had promised to come home early. - -"Who knows! Good night," and Laura rose to go away. - -"But what are you going to do?" - -"Read a little; then sleep." - -"What are you reading?" - -"'_Le mot de l'énigme_,'[E] by Madame Pauline Craven." - -"A mystical romance? Do you want to become a nun?" - -"Who knows! Good night." - -Anna herself took up a book after Laura's departure. It was -_Adolphe_, by Benjamin Constant; she had found it one day on her -husband's writing-desk. In its cool yet ardent pages one feels the -charm of a truthful story, surging up from the heart in a single, -vibrant cry of pain. Anna had read it two or three times; now she began -it again, absent-mindedly. But she did not read long. A few callers -came; the Marchesa Scibilia, her relative, accompanied by Gaetano -Althan, who always liked to go about with old ladies; Commander -Gabriele Mari, a man of seventy; and then the Prince of Gioiosa, a -handsome, witty, and intelligent Calabrian. - -The conversation, of course, was a mixture of frivolity and -seriousness, as conversations are apt to be in a small gathering like -the present, where nobody cares to appear too much in earnest, and -everybody tries to speak in paradoxes. - -The Prince di Gioiosa was the last to leave; it was then past eleven. - -"No one else will come," she thought. - -But she was mistaken. Acquaintances passing in the street, and seeing -her windows alight, came up to pay their respects. When the last of -these had gone, "It is late; no one else will come," she thought -again. - -But again she was mistaken. The servant announced Luigi Caracciolo; -and the handsome young fellow entered, with that English correctness -of bearing which somewhat tempered the vivacity of his blonde -youthfulness. He was in evening dress, and wore a spray of lilies of -the valley in his button-hole. - -Anna gave him her hand amicably. Her rings glittered in the lamplight. - -"Starry hand," he said, bowing, and pressing it softly. - -"Where do you come from?" she asked, with that polite curiosity which -implies no real interest. - -"From the opera," he said, seating himself beside her. - -"What were they giving?" - -"'The Huguenots'--always the same." - -"It is always beautiful." - -"Do you remember?" he asked with a tender, caressing voice. "They -were singing 'The Huguenots' on the evening when I was introduced to -you." - -"Yes, yes; I remember that evening," she said, with sudden melancholy. - -"How horribly I displeased you that night, didn't I? The only thing -to approach it was the tremendously delightful impression you made on -me." - -"What nonsense!" she protested kindly. - -"And your first impression of me has never changed--confess it," he -said. - -"Even if that were true, it wouldn't make you very unhappy." - -"What can you know about that? You beautiful women, admired and -loved--what do you know?" - -"You're right. Indeed, we know nothing." - -But he saw that her mind was away in a land of dreams, far from him. -He felt all at once the distance that divided them. - -"When you come back from your travels let me know, that I may welcome -you," he said, with his smooth, caressing voice. - -"What travels?" - -"Ah! If I knew! If I knew where your thoughts are wandering while -I talk to you, I could go with you, I could follow you in your -fantasies. Instead, I speak, and you don't listen to me. I say -serious things to you in a jesting tone, and you understand neither -the seriousness nor the joke. You leave me here alone, whilst you -roam--who knows where? And I, a humble mortal, without visions, -without imagination, I can only wait for your return, my dear lady." - -If, indeed, there was a certain poetic quality in what he said, there -was a deeper poetry still in the tenderness and sweetness of his -voice. He sat in front of her, gazing into her face, as if he could -not tear himself from that contemplation. She sometimes lowered her -eyes, sometimes turned them away, sometimes fixed them upon a page of -_Adolphe_, which she had kept in her hands. If his gaze embarrassed -her, however, his soft voice seemed to calm her nerves. She listened -to it, scarcely understanding his words, as one listens to a vague -pleasant music. - -"Doesn't it bore you to wait?" she asked. - -"I am never bored here. When I have this lovely sight before my eyes." - -"What sight?" she inquired, ingenuously. - -"Your person, my dear lady." - -"But you can't always be looking at me," she said, laughing, trying -to turn the conversation to a jest. - -"That's a fatal misfortune, as they say in novels. I should like -to pass my whole life near to you. Instead, I'm obliged to pass it -among a lot of people who are utterly indifferent to me. A great -misfortune!" - -"It's not your fault," she said, with a faint smile. - -"It certainly isn't. But that doesn't console me. Shall we try -it--passing our lives together? One can overcome misfortunes. Our -whole lives--that will mean many years." - -"But I am married," she said, feeling that the talk was becoming -dangerous. - -"Oh, that's nothing," he cried emphatically. - -"Caracciolo, I believe you've found the means to see me no more. What -do you want from me?" - -"Nothing, dear lady, nothing," he answered, with genuine grief in his -face and voice. - -"Then you ought not to risk destroying one of your friendships. What -would Cesare have said if he had heard you for the last half hour?" - -"Oh, nothing. He couldn't have heard me, you know, because he's never -here." - -"Sometimes he is," she said, with sudden emotion. - -"Never, never. Don't tell pious fibs." - -"He's always here." - -"In your heart. I know it. It's an agreeable home for him, the more -so because he can find others of the same sort wherever he goes." - -"What are you saying?" - -"One of my usual vulgarities. I'm speaking ill of your husband." - -"Then be quiet." - -But to soften the severity of this command, she offered him a box of -cigarettes. - -"Thanks for your charity," he said. - -And he began to smoke, looking at one of her slippers of lilac satin -embroidered with silver, which escaped from beneath her train. She -sat with her elbow on the table, thinking. It was midnight. In a few -minutes Caracciolo would be gone; and Cesare couldn't delay much -longer about coming home. - -Luigi Caracciolo seemed to divine her thoughts. - -"After this cigarette, I will leave you. I'm afraid I've given you no -great idea of my wit." - -"I detest witty men." - -"Small harm! I hope you believe, though, that I have a heart." - -"I believe it." - -"All the better. One day or another you will remember what I have -said to you this evening, and understand it." - -"Perhaps," she said, vaguely. - -"You had a very happy inspiration, to dress in lilac. It's such a -tender colour. That's the tint one sees in the sunsets at Venice. -Have you ever been at Venice?" - -"Never." - -"That's a pity. It's a place full of soft tears. One can make a -provision of them there, to last a life-time. Trifling loves become -deep at Venice, and deep loves become indestructible. Good-night." - -"Good-night." - -She gave him her hand, like a white flower issuing from the satin of -her sleeve. He touched it lightly with his lips, and went away. - -Not for a moment during her conversation with Luigi Caracciolo had -her husband been absent from Anna's mind. And all that the young man -said, which constantly implied if it did not directly mention love, -had but intensified her one eternal thought. - -It was now half-past twelve. She rose and rang the bell; and her maid -appeared. - -They left the drawing-room and went into Anna's bedroom, which was -lighted by a big lamp with a shade of pink silk. - -Her maid helped her to undress, thinking that she was going to bed; -but presently Anna asked for her tea-gown of cream-coloured crape, -and put it on, as if she meant to sit up. She had loosened her hair, -and it fell down her back in a single rich black tress. - -The maid asked if she might go to bed. Anna said, "Yes." Cesare had -given orders that no servant should ever sit up for him; he had a -curiously wrought little key, a master-key, which he wore on his -watch-chain, and which opened every door in his house. Thus he could -come in at any hour of the night he liked, without being seen or -heard. The maid went softly away, closing the door behind her. - -Anna sat down in an easy chair, beside her bed. She still had the -volume of _Adolphe_ in her hand. She sat still there, while she -heard the servant moving about the apartment, shutting the windows. -Then all was silent. - -Anna got up, and opened the doors between her room and her husband's. -So she would be able to hear him when he returned. He could not delay -much longer. He had promised her to come home early; he knew that -she would wait for him. And, as she had been doing through the whole -evening, but with greater intensity than ever, she longed for the -presence of her loved one. Was not every thing empty and colourless -when he was away? And this evening he had been so merry and so kind. -His promise resounded in her soul like a solemn vow. She thrilled -with tremulous emotion. The softness of the spring night entered into -her and exhilarated her. - -She lay back in her easy-chair, with closed eyes, and dreamed of his -coming. She felt an immense need of him, to have him there beside -her, to hold his hand in hers, to lean her head upon his shoulder in -sweet, deep peace, listening to the beating of his heart, supported -by his arms, while his breath fell upon her hair, her eyelids, her -lips. A dream of love; vivid and languid, full of delicate ardour and -melancholy desire. - -She surprised herself murmuring his name. "Cesare, Cesare," she said, -trembling with love at the sound of her own voice. - -Suddenly it seemed to her that she heard a noise in her husband's -room. Then he had come! - -Swiftly, like a flying shadow, she crossed the passage, and looked -in. Only silence and darkness! She had been mistaken. She leaned on -the frame of the door, and remained thus for a long moment. - -Slowly she returned to her own room, thinking that "early" must mean -for a man of late habits like Cesare two o'clock in the morning. That -was it! He would arrive at two. - -She took up _Adolphe_, thinking to divert herself with reading, and -thus to moderate her impatience. She opened the book towards the -middle, where the passionate struggle between Ellenore and Adolphe -is shown in all its sorrowful intensity. And from the dry, precise -words, the hard, effective style, the brief and austere narrative, -which was like the cry of a soul destroyed by scepticism, Anna -derived an impression of fright. Ah, in her sincere, youthful faith, -what a horror she had of that modern malady which corrupts the mind, -depraves the conscience, and kills whatever is most noble in the -soul! What could she know, poor, simple, ignorant woman, whose only -belief, whose only law, whose only hope was love--what could she know -of the spiritual diseases of those who have seen too much, who have -loved too much, who have squandered the purest treasures of their -feelings? What could she know of the desolating torture of those -souls who can no longer believe in anything, not even in themselves, -and who have lost their last ideal? She could know nothing; and -yet a terror assailed her. Perhaps Cesare, her husband, was like -_Adolphe_, who could never more be happy, who could never more give -happiness to others. She shuddered, and threw the book aside, in -great distress. - -She got up mechanically, and took from a table a rosary of sandal -wood, which a Missionary Friar had brought from Jerusalem. - -She had never been regular in her devotions; her imagination was -too fervid. But religious feelings seemed sometimes to sweep in -upon her in great waves of divine love. A child of the South, she -only prayed when moved by some strong pain, for which she could -find no earthly relief. She forgot to pray when she was happy. Now -she pressed her rosary to her lips, and began to repeat the long -and poetical Litany, which Domenico de Guzman has dedicated to the -Virgin. Ingenuously enough, she thought that in this way the time -would pass more rapidly, two o'clock would strike, and Cesare would -arrive. But she endeavoured in vain to fix her mind upon her orisons; -it flew away, before her, to her meeting with her Beloved; and though -her lips pronounced the words of the _Ave_ and the _Pater_, their -sense escaped her. Once or twice she paused for a few minutes, and -then went on, confused, beseeching Heaven's pardon for her slight -attention. - -When her rosary was finished, it was two precisely. Now Cesare would -come. - -She could not control her nervousness. She took her lamp and went -into her husband's room: she placed the lamp on the writing-desk, -and seated herself in one of the leather arm-chairs. She felt easier -here; the austerity of the big chamber, with its dark furniture, -told her that her husband's soul was above the sterile and frivolous -pleasures in which he had already lost the best part of the night. - -The air still smelt of cigarette smoke. Here and there a point of -metal gleamed in the lamplight. On a table lay a pair of gloves; they -had been worn that day, and they retained the form of his hands. She -kissed them, and put them into the bosom of her gown. - -But where was Cesare? - -She began to pace backwards and forwards, the train of her dress -following her like a white wave. Why did he not come home? It was -late, very late. There were no balls on for that night; no social -function could detain him till this hour. - -Where was Cesare? Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare, her dear love, where -was he? She passed her hands over her burning forehead. - -All at once, looking out into the night, she noticed in the distance -the windows of Cesare's club, brilliantly lighted. Then a sudden -peace came to her. He would be there, playing, talking, enjoying the -company of his friends, forgetful of the time. It was an old habit of -his, and old habits are so hard to break. She remained at the window -of his room, with her eyes fixed upon the windows of his club; the -light that shone from them was the pole-star of her heart. - -She opened the window and went out upon the balcony. - -Presently two men issued from the club-house, stood for a moment -chatting together at the entrance, and then moved off towards the -Chiaia. Ah, she thought, the company at the Club was beginning to -break up; at last Cesare would come. At the end of ten minutes, four -men came out together. These also chatted together for a minute, -then separated, two going towards the Riviera, two entering the Via -Vittoria. By-and-by one man came out alone, and advanced directly -towards Dias' house. This, this surely would be he. - -The man was looking up, towards the balcony. - -"Good-night, Signora Anna," said the voice of Luigi Caracciolo. - -"Good-night," she murmured, faint with disappointment. - -Caracciolo had stopped, and was leaning on the railing, gazing up at -her. Anna drew back out of sight. - -"Good-night, Anna," he repeated, very softly. - -She did not answer. - -Caracciolo went off, slowly, slowly; stopping now and then to look -back. - -She turned her eyes again upon the windows of the club, but they were -quite dark; the lights had been extinguished. - -So Caracciolo had been the last to leave; and Cesare was not there! - -She felt terribly cold, all at once. Her teeth chattered. She went -back into the room, shivering, and had scarcely strength enough to -shut the window. She fell upon a chair, exhausted. The clock struck. -It was half-past three. - -And now a hideous suspicion began to torture her. There were no balls -to-night, no receptions, no functions. The club was shut up. The -cafés were shut up. All talking, eating, drinking, gambling, were -over for the night. The life of the night was spent. Everybody had -gone home to bed. Then where was Cesare? Cesare, her husband, was -with a woman! And jealousy began to gnaw her heart. With a woman; -that was certain. The truth burned her soul. He could be nowhere else -than with a woman. The truth rang in her heart like a trumpet-blast. -Mechanically she put her fingers to her ears to shut out the -words--_with a woman, with a woman_. - -But what woman? - -She knew nothing of her husband's secrets, nothing of his past or -present loves. - -She was a mere stranger whom he tolerated, not a friend, not a -confidant. She was a troublesome bond upon him, an obstacle to his -pleasures, an interference with his habits. No doubt there were older -bonds, stronger ties, that kept him from her; or it might be the mere -force of a passing fancy. But for what woman, for what woman? In vain -she tried to give the woman a name, a living form. - -Oh, certainly not a lady, not a woman of honourable rank and -reputation; not the Contessa d'Alemagna. - -Who then? Who then? - -How much time passed, while she sat there, in a convulsion of tears -and sobs, prey to all the anguish of jealousy? - -The day broke; a greenish, livid light entered the room. - -The handle of the door turned. Cesare came in. He was very pale, with -dull, weary eyes. He had a cigarette in his mouth; his lips were -blue. The collar of his overcoat was turned up; his hands were in his -pockets. He looked at his wife indifferently, coldly, as if he did -not recognise her. - -She rose. Her face was ashen. Her capacity for feeling was exhausted. - -"What are you doing here?" he asked. - -He threw away his cigarette, and took off his hat. How old and used -up he looked, with his hair in disorder, his cheeks sunken from lack -of sleep. - -"I was waiting for you," she said. - -"All night?" - -"All night." - -"You have great patience." - -He opened the door. - -"Good-bye, Anna." - -"Good-bye, Cesare." - -And she returned to her own room. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[D] Spanish in the original. - -[E] The key to the riddle. - - - - - III. - -About the middle of June, in the first summer of his marriage, -Cesare Dias brought his wife and his sister-in-law to the Villa -Caterina at Sorrento. He would leave them there, while he went to -take the baths at Vichy. Afterwards he was going to Saint-Moritz -in the Engadine, whither betake themselves such persons as desire -to be cold in summer, the same who, desiring to be hot in winter, -hibernate at Nice. Anna had secretly wished to accompany her husband -upon this journey, longing to be alone with him, far from their usual -surroundings; but she was to be left behind. - -Ever since that night when she had sat up till dawn waiting for him, -tormented, disillusioned, her faith destroyed, her moral strength -exhausted, there had been a coldness between the couple. Cesare had -lost no time in asserting his independence of her, and had vouchsafed -but the vaguest explanations, saying in general terms that a man -might pass a night out of his house, chatting with friends or playing -cards, for any one of a multitude of reasons. Anna had listened -without answering. She dreaded above all things having a quarrel -with her husband. She closed her eyes and listened. He flung his -explanation at her with an air of contempt. She was silent but not -satisfied. - -She could never forget the hours of that night, when, for the first -time, she had drained her cup of bitterness to its dregs, and looked -into the bottom depths of human wickedness. The sweetness of her love -had then been poisoned. - -As for Cesare, he had been exceedingly annoyed by her waiting for -him, which seemed to him an altogether extravagant manifestation of -her fondness. It annoyed him to have been surprised in the early -morning light looking old and ugly; it annoyed him to have to explain -his absence; and it annoyed him finally to think that similar -scenes might occur again. Oh, how he loathed these tragic women and -their tragedies! After having hated them his whole life long, them -and their tears and their vapourings, behold! he had been trapped -into marrying one of them--for his sins; and his rancour at the -inconceivable folly he had committed vented itself upon Anna. She, -sad in the essence of her soul, humble, disheartened, understood -her husband's feelings; and by means of her devotion and tenderness -sought to procure his pardon for her offence--the offence of having -waited for him that night! One day, when Anna had been even more -penitent and more affectionate than usual, he had indeed made some -show of forgiving her, with the pretentious indulgence of a superior -being; she had taken his forgiveness as a slave takes a kind word -after a beating, smiling with tears in her eyes, happy that he had -not punished her more heavily for her fault. - -But the truth is, he was a man and not an angel. He had forgiven -her; yet he still wished to punish her. On no consideration would -he take her with him to Vichy and Saint-Moritz. He gave her to -understand that their wedding-journey was finished; that it would -never do to leave her sister Laura alone for two months with no other -chaperone than Stella Martini; that it wasn't his wish to play Joseph -Prudhomme, and travel in the bosom of his family; in short, he gave -her to understand in a thousand ways that he wished to go alone; and -she resigned herself to staying behind in preference to forcing her -company upon him. She flattered herself, poor thing, that this act of -submission, so hard for her to make, would restore her to her lord's -good graces. He went away, indeed in great good temper. He seemed -rejuvenated. The idea of the absolute liberty he was about to enjoy -filled him with enthusiasm. He recommended his ladies (as he jokingly -called the sisters) not to be too nun-like, but to go out, to -receive, to amuse themselves as they wished. Anna heard this advice, -pale with downcast eyes; Laura listened to it with an odd smile on -her lips, looking straight into her brother-in-law's face. She too -was pale and mute. - -After his departure a great, sad silence seemed to invade the villa. -Each of the sisters was pensive and reserved; they spoke but little -together; they even appeared to avoid each other. For the rest, the -charming youthful serenity of the blonde Minerva had vanished; her -white brow was clouded with thought. They were in the same house, but -for some time they rarely met. - -Anna wrote to Cesare twice a day; she told him everything that -happened; she opened to him her every fancy, her every dream; she -wrote with the effusiveness of a passionate woman, who, too timid -to express herself by spoken words, finds her outlet in letters. -Writing, she could tell him how she loved him, that she was his in -body and soul. Cesare wrote to her once or twice a week, and not at -length; but in each of his notes there would be, if not a word of -love, at least some kindly phrase; and upon that Anna would live for -three or four days--until his next letter arrived. He was enjoying -himself; he was feeling better; he would return soon. Sometimes -he even expressed a wish for her presence, that she might share -his pleasure in a landscape or laugh with him at some original -fellow-traveller. He always sent his remembrances to Laura; and Anna -would read them out to her. - -"Thank you," was all that Laura responded. - -Laura herself wrote a good deal in these days. What was she writing? -And to whom? She sat at her little desk, shut up in her room, and -covered big sheets of paper with her clear, firm handwriting. -If any one entered, she covered what she had written with her -blotting-paper, and remained silent, with lowered eyes, toying -with her pen. More than once Anna had come in. Thereupon Laura -had gathered up her manuscripts, and locked them into a drawer, -controlling with an effort the trouble in her face. - -"What are you writing?" Anna asked one day, overcoming her timidity, -and moved by a strange impulse of curiosity. - -"Nothing that would interest you," the other answered. - -"How can you say so?" the elder sister protested, with indulgent -tenderness. "Whatever pleases you or moves you must interest me." - -"Nothing pleases me and nothing moves me," Laura said, looking down. - -"Not even what you are writing?" - -"Not even what I am writing." - -"How reserved you are! How close you keep your secrets! But why -should you have any?" Anna insisted affectionately. - -"Yes," said Laura, vaguely. She got up and left the room, carrying -her key with her. - -Anna never again referred to what her sister was writing. It might be -letters, it might be a journal. - -In July, Sorrento filled up with tourists and holiday folk; and the -other villas were occupied by their owners. The sisters were invited -about a good deal, and lured into the thousand summer gaieties of the -town. - -One of the earliest arrivals was Luigi Caracciolo. He came to -Sorrento every season, but usually not till the middle of August, -and then to spend no more than a fortnight. He had rather a disdain -for Sorrento, he who had travelled over the whole of Europe. This -year he came in the first week of July; and he was determined to stay -until Anna Dias left. He was genuinely in love with her; in his own -way, of course. The mystery that hung over her past, and her love -for Cesare Dias, which Luigi knew to be unrequited, made her all the -dearer to him. He was in love, as men are in love who have loved many -times before. Sometimes he lost his head a little in her presence, -but never more than a little. He retained his mastery of himself -sufficiently to pursue his own well-proved methods of love-making. -He covered his real passion with a semblance of levity which served -admirably to compel Anna to tolerate it. - -She never allowed him--especially at Sorrento, where she was alone -and where she was very sad--to speak of love; but she could not -forbid him to call occasionally at the Villa Caterina, nor could -she help meeting him here and there in the town. And Cesare, from -Saint-Moritz, kept writing to her and Laura to amuse themselves, -to go out, saying that he hated women who lived like recluses. And -sometimes he would add a joking message for Caracciolo, calling -him Anna's faithful cavalier; but she, through delicacy, had not -delivered them. - -Luigi did not pay too open a court to her, did not affect too great -an intimacy; but he was never far from her. For a whole evening -he would hover near her at a party, waiting for the moment when -he might seat himself beside her; he would leave when she left, -and on the pretext of taking a little walk in the moonlight, -would accompany the two ladies to the door of their house. He was -persevering, with a gentle, continuous, untiring perseverance that -nothing could overcome, neither Anna's silence, nor her coldness, -nor her melancholy. She often spoke to him of Cesare, and with so -much feeling in her voice that he turned pale, wounded in his pride, -disappointed in his desire, yet not despairing, for it is always a -hopeful sign when a woman loves, even though she loves another. Then -the only difficulty (though an immense one) is to change the face of -the man she loves to your own, by a sort of sentimental sleight of -hand. - -For various reasons, he was extremely cautious. He was not one of -those who enjoy advertising their desires and their discomfitures -on the walls of the town. Then, he did not wish to alarm Anna, and -cause her to close her door to him. And besides, he was afraid of -the silent watchfulness of Laura. The beautiful Minerva and the -handsome young man had never understood each other; they were given -to exchanging somewhat sharp words at their encounters, a remarkable -proceeding on the part of Laura, who usually talked little, and then -only in brief and colourless sentences. Her contempt for him was -undisguised. It appeared in her manner of looking him over when he -wore a new suit of clothes, in her manner of beginning and ending -her remarks to him with the phrase, "A handsome young fellow like -you." That was rather bold, for a girl, but Laura was over twenty, -and both the sisters passed for being nice, but rather original, -nice but original, as their mother and father had been before them. -Luigi Caracciolo himself thought them odd, but the oddity of Anna -was adorable, that of Laura made him uneasy and distrustful. He was -afraid that on one day or another, she might denounce him to Cesare, -and betray his love for the other's wife. She had such a sarcastic -smile sometimes on her lips! And her laughter had such a scornful -ring! He imagined the most fantastic things in respect of her, and -feared her mightily. - -"How strange your sister is," he said once to Anna, finding her alone. - -"She's good, though," said Anna, thoughtfully. - -"Does she seem so to you?" - -"Yes." - -"You little know. You're very ingenuous. She's probably a monster of -perfidy," he said softly. - -"Why do you say that to me, Caracciolo? Don't you know that I dislike -such jokes?" - -"If I offend you, I'll hold my tongue. I keep my opinion, though. -Some day you'll agree with me." - -"Be quiet, Caracciolo. You distress me." - -"It's much better to have no illusions; then we can't lose them, dear -lady." - -"It is better to lose illusions, than never to have had them." - -"What a deep heart is yours! How I should like to drown in it! Let me -drown myself in your heart, Anna." - -"Don't call me by my name," she said, as if she had heard only his -last word. - -"I will obey," he answered meekly. - -"You, too, are good," she murmured, absently. - -"I am as bad as can be, Signora," he rejoined, piqued. - -She shook her head good-naturedly, with the smile of one who would -not believe in human wickedness, who would keep her faith intact, in -spite of past delusions. And the more Luigi Caracciolo posed as a -depraved character, the more she showed her belief that at the bottom -every human soul is good. - -"Everybody is good, according to you," he said. "Then I suppose your -husband, Cesare, is good too?" - -"Too? He is the best of all. He is absolutely good," she cried, her -voice softening as it always did when she spoke of Cesare. - -"He who leaves you here alone after a few months of marriage?" - -"But I'm not alone," she retorted, simply. - -"You're not alone--you're in bad company," he said, nervously. - -"Do you think so? I wasn't aware of it." - -"You couldn't tell me more politely that I'm a nonentity. But he, -he who is away, and who no doubt invents a thousands pretence to -explain his absence to you--can you really say that he is good." - -"Cesare invents no pretences for me," she replied, turning pale. - -"Who says so? He? Do you believe him?" - -"He says nothing. I have faith in him," she answered, overwhelmed to -hear her own daily fears thus uttered for her. - -Caracciolo looked at her anxiously. Merely to hear her pronounce her -husband's name proved that she adored him. Luigi was too expert a -student of women not to interpret rightly her pallor, her emotion, -her distress. He did not know, but he could easily guess that Anna -wrote to Cesare every day, and that he responded rarely and briefly. -He understood how heavy her long hours of solitude must be, amid the -blue and green of the Sorrento landscape, passed in constant longing -for her husband's presence. He understood perfectly that she was -consumed by secret jealousy, and that he tortured her cruelly when -by a word, or an insinuation he inspired her with new suspicions. -He could read her heart like an open book; but he loved her all the -better for the intense passion that breathed from its pages. He did -not despair. Sooner or later, he was convinced, he would succeed in -overcoming the obstacle in his way. He adopted the ancient method of -assailing the character of the absent man. - -When he would mention some old flame of Cesare's, or some affair -that still continued, and which his marriage could not break off, -or when he would speak of Cesare's desertion of his young wife, he -saw Anna's face change; he knew the anguish that he woke in her -heart, and he suffered wretchedly to realise that it was for the love -of another man. His weapon was a double-edged sword, that wounded -her and wounded him. But what of that? He continued to wield it, -believing that thus little by little he could deface the image of -Cesare Dias that Anna consecrated with her adoration. - -Anna was always ready to talk of her husband, and that gave him his -opportunity for putting in his innuendoes. At the same time it caused -him much bitterness of spirit, and sometimes he would say, "We are -three. How do you do, Cesare?" bowing to an imaginary presence. - -Anna's eyes filled with tears at such moments. - -"Forgive me, forgive me," he cried. "But when you introduce his name -into our conversation, you cause me such agony that I feel I am -winning my place in heaven. Go on: I am already tied to the rack; -force your knife into my heart, gentle torturess." - -And she, at first timidly, but then with the impetuousness of an open -and generous nature, would continue to talk of Cesare. Where was -he, what was he doing, when would he return? she would ask; and he -by-and-by would interrupt her speculations to suggest that Cesare was -probably just now on the Righi, with the Comtesse de Béhague, one -of his old French loves, whom he met every year in Switzerland; and -that he would very likely not return to Sorrento at all, nor even to -Naples before the end of October. - -"I don't believe it, I don't believe it," she protested. - -"You don't believe it? But it's his usual habit. Why should he alter -it this year?" - -"He has me to think of now." - -"Ah, dear Anna, dear Anna, he thinks of you so little!" - -"Don't call me by my name," she said, making a gesture to forbid him. - -"If Cesare heard me he wouldn't like it--eh?" - -"I think so." - -"You hope so, dear lady, which is a very different thing. But he's -not jealous." - -"No; he's not jealous," she repeated, softly, lost in sorrowful -meditations. "But what man is?" - -"He's a man who has never thought of anything but his own pleasure." - -"Sad, sad," she murmured very low. - -Yet, though she thoroughly well understood that a better knowledge -of her husband's past life could only bring her greater pain, she -began to question Luigi Caracciolo about Cesare's adventures. Ah, -how ashamed she was to do so! It seemed like violating a confidence; -like desecrating an idol that she had erected on the altar of her -heart. It seemed like breaking the most sacred condition of love, -which is secrecy, to speak thus of her love to a man who loved her. -Yet the temptation was too strong for her. And cautiously, by hints, -she endeavoured to draw from Caracciolo some fact, some episode, a -detail, a name, a date; she would try to ask indifferently, feigning -a slight interest, attempting without success to play the woman of -wit--she, poor thing, who was only a woman of heart. - -Caracciolo understood at once, and for form's sake assumed a certain -reluctance. Then, as if won by her wishes, he would speak; he would -give her a fact, an episode, a date, a name, commenting upon it in -such wise as, without directly speaking ill of Cesare, to underline -his hardness of heart and his incapacity for real passion. It was -sad wisdom that Anna hereby gained. Her husband's soul was cold and -arid; he had always been the same; nothing had ever changed him. -Sometimes, sick and tired, she would pray Caracciolo by a gesture -to stop his talk; she would remain thoughtful and silent, feeling -that she had poured a corrosive acid into her own wounds. Sometimes -Laura would be present at these conversations, beautiful, in white -garments, with soft, lovely eyes. She listened to Caracciolo with -close attention, whilst an inscrutable smile played on her virginal -lips. He, in deference to the young girl's presence, would, from -time to time, drop the subject; then Laura would look at him with an -expression of ardent curiosity that surprised him, a look that seemed -to ask a hundred questions. His narrative of the life of Cesare -Dias succeeded in spoiling Anna's holiday, but did not advance his -courtship by an inch. - -He has great patience, and unlimited faith in his method. He knew -that a strong passion or a strong desire can overcome in time the -most insurmountable obstacles. Yet he had moments of terrible -discouragement. How she loved him, Cesare Dias, this beautiful -woman! It was a love all the more sad to contemplate, because of the -discrepancies of age and character between husband and wife. Here -was a fresh young girl uncomplainingly supporting the neglect of a -worn-out man of forty. - -One day, unexpectedly, Cesare returned. From his wife's pallor, -from her trembling, he understood how much he had been loved during -his absence. He was very kind to her, very gallant, very tender. He -embraced her and kissed her many times, effusively, and told her that -she was far lovelier than the ladies of France and Switzerland. He -was in the best of good humours; and she, laughing with tears in her -eyes, and holding his hand as she stood beside him, realised anew how -single and absolute was her love for him. - -Two or three times Cesare asked, "And Laura?" - -"She's very well. She'll be coming soon." - -"You haven't found her a husband?" - -"She doesn't want one." - -"That's what all girls say." - -"Laura is obstinate. She really doesn't want one. People even think -she would like to become a nun." - -"Nonsense." - -"The strange thing is that once when I asked her if it was true, she -answered no." - -"She's an odd girl," said Cesare, a little pensively. - -"I don't understand her." - -"Ah, for that matter, you understand very little in general," said -her husband, caressing her hair to temper his impertinence. - -"Oh, you're right; very little," she answered, with a happy smile. -"I'm an imbecile." - -But Laura did not come, though she had been called. Anna sent her -maid. "She would come at once; she was dressing," was the reply. They -waited for her a few minutes longer; and when she appeared in the -doorway, dazzling in white, with her golden hair in a rich coil on -the top of her head, Anna cried, "Laura, Cesare has come." - -Cesare rose and advanced to meet his sister-in-law. She gave him her -hand, and he kissed it. But he saw that she was offering her face; -then he embraced her, kissing her cheek, which was like the petal of -a camellia. This was all over in an instant, but it seemed a long -instant to Anna; and she had an instinctive feeling of repulsion -when Laura, blushing a little, came up and kissed her. It was an -instinctive caress on the part of Laura, and an instinctive movement -of repulsion on that of Anna. Not that she had the faintest evil -thought or suspicion; it was a vague distress, a subtle pain, nothing -else. - -From that day life in the quiet Villa Caterina became sensibly -gayer; there were visits and receptions, dances, and yachting -parties. It was an extremely lively season at Sorrento. There were -a good many foreigners in the town; amongst them two or three wild -American girls, who swam, rowed, played croquet and lawn-tennis, -were very charming, and had handsome dowries. It became the fashion -for the men to make love to these young persons, a thing that was -sufficiently unusual in a society where flirtation with unmarried -women is supposed to be forbidden. Cesare told Anna that it was a -propitious moment for launching Laura; she too had a handsome dowry, -and was very lovely, though she lacked perhaps the vivacity of the -wild Americans; and with the energy of a youth, he took his wife and -sister everywhere. - -Luigi Caracciolo continued to make his court to Anna. With delicate -cynicism, Cesare, on his return, had inquired whether Luigi had -faithfully discharged his duty as her cavalier, but Anna had turned -such talk aside, for it hurt her. Laura, however, declared that Luigi -had accomplished miracles of devotion, and shown himself a model of -constancy. - -"And the lady, what of her?" asked Cesare, pulling his handsome black -moustaches. - -"Heartless," Laura answered, smiling at Anna, for whom this joking -was a martyrdom. - -"Noble but heartless lady!" repeated Cesare. - -"Would you have wished me to be otherwise?" demanded Anna, quickly, -looking into her husband's eyes. - -"No; I should not have wished it," was his prompt rejoinder. - -In spite of this downright pronouncement, in which her husband, for -all his cynicism, asserted his invincible right to her fidelity--in -spite of the fact that Cesare appeared to watch the comings and -goings of Caracciolo--he openly jested with his wife's follower about -his courtship. - -"Well, how is it getting on, Luigi?" he asked one day. - -"Badly, Cesare. It couldn't be worse," responded Luigi, with a -melancholy accent that was only half a feint. - -"And yet I left the field free to you." - -"Yes; you are as generous as the emperors your namesakes; but when -you have captured a province you know how to keep it, whether you are -far or near." - -"Men of my age always do, Luigi." - -"Ah, you have a different tradition." - -"What tradition?" - -"You don't love." - -"What! Do you mean to say that you young fellows love?" asked Cesare, -lifting his eyebrows. - -"Sometimes, you know, we commit that folly." - -"It's a mistaken method--a grave blunder. I hope that you've not -fallen into it." - -"I don't know," said Luigi, looking mysterious. "Besides, your -question strikes me as prompted by jealousy. I'll say no more. It -might end in bloodshed." - -"I don't think so," laughed Cesare. - -"But you'll drive me to despair, Dias. Don't you see that your -confidence tortures me. For heaven's sake, do me the favour of being -jealous." - -"Anything to oblige you, my dear fellow, except that. I've never been -jealous of a woman in my life." - -"And why not?" - -"Because----. One day or another I'll tell you." And putting his -arm through Luigi's he led him into the drawing-room of the Hotel -Vittoria. - -Such talks were frequent between them; on Cesare's side calm and -ironical, on Luigi's sometimes a little bitter. On their family -outings, Cesare always gave his arm to Laura, for he held it -ridiculous for a husband to pair off with his wife; and Caracciolo -would devote himself to Anna. Cesare would make him a sign of -intelligence, laughing at his assiduity. - -"Rigidly obeying orders, eh?" asked the sarcastic husband. - -"Anyhow, it's she who's given me my orders," answered the other, -sadly. - -"But really, Anna, you're putting to death the handsomest lad in -Christendom!" exclaimed Cesare. - -"The world is the richer for those who die of love," she returned. - -"Sentimental aphorism," said Cesare, with a cutting ironical smile. - -And he went away to dance with Laura. Between Anna and Luigi there -was a long silence. It was impossible for her to listen to these -pleasantries without suffering. The idea that her husband could speak -thus lightly of another man's love for her, the idea that he could -treat as a worldly frivolity the daily siege that Caracciolo was -laying to her heart, martyrised her. She was nothing to him, since -he could allow another man to court her. He never showed a sign of -jealousy, and jealousy pleases women even when they know it is not -sincere. She was angry with Cesare as much as with Luigi. - -"You jest too much about your feelings for any woman to take them -seriously," she said to the latter, one evening, when they were -listening to a concert of mandolines and guitars. - -"You're right," he answered, turning pale. "But once when I never -jested, I had equally bad luck. You refused to marry me." - -He spoke sadly. That she had refused to marry him still further -embittered for him her present indifference. How could a woman have -refused a rich and handsome youth, for a man who had passed forty, -and was effete in mind and body? How had Cesare Dias so completely -taken possession of this woman's heart? The passion of Anna for -Cesare, and that of Caracciolo for Anna, were much talked of in -Sorrento society, and the general opinion was that Dias must be a -tremendous wizard, that he possessed to a supreme degree the art -of attracting men and winning women, and that everybody was right -to love and worship him. As for Caracciolo, his was the story of a -failure. - -Caracciolo himself, moved by I know not what instinct of loyalty, -of vanity, or of subtle calculation, accepted and even exaggerated -his role of an unsuccessful lover. Wherever he went, at the theatre, -at parties, he showed plainly that he was waiting for Anna, and -was nervous and restless until she came. His face changed when -she entered, bowed to him, gave him her hand; and when she left -he followed immediately. Perhaps he was glad that all this should -be noticed. He knew he could never move her by appearing cold and -sceptical; that was Cesare's pose, and in it Luigi could not hope to -rival him. Perhaps her sympathies would be stirred if she saw him -ardent and sorrowful. - -In the autumn he perceived that Anna was troubled by some new -grief. Her joy at the return of Cesare had given place to a strange -agitation. She was pale and silent, with dark circles under her eyes. -And he realised that whatever faint liking she had had for himself -had been blotted out by a sorrow whose causes were unknown to him. - -One day he said to her, "Something is troubling you?" - -"Yes," she answered frankly. - -"Will you tell me what it is?" - -"No; I don't wish to," she said, with the same frankness. - -"Am I unworthy of your confidence?" - -"I can't tell it to you, I can't. It's too horrible," she murmured, -with so heart-broken an inflection that he was silent, fearing lest -others should witness her emotion. - -He returned to the subject later on, but without result. Anna -appeared horror-struck by her own thoughts and feelings. Luigi had -numberless suspicions. Had Anna secretly come to love him? Or, had -she fallen in love with some one else, some one unknown to him? But -he soon saw that neither of these suppositions were tenable. He saw -that she had not for a moment ceased to love Cesare Dias, and that -her grief, whatever it was, sprang as usual from her love for him. - -For the first week after his return her husband had been kind and -tender to her; then, little by little, he had resumed his old -indifference. He constantly neglected her. He went out perpetually -with Laura, on the pretext that she was too old now to be accompanied -only by her governess, and that it was his duty to find a husband for -her. Sometimes Anna went with them, to enjoy her husband's presence. - -Often he and Laura would joke together about this question of her -marriage. - -"How many suitors have you?" asked Cesare, laughing. - -"Four who have declared themselves; three or four others who are a -little uncertain." - -Anna felt herself excluded from their intimacy, and sought in vain to -enter it. It made her exceedingly unhappy. - -She was jealous of her sister, and she hated herself for her jealousy. - -"I am vile and perfidious since I suspect others of vileness and -perfidy," she told herself to. - -Was it possible that Cesare could be guilty of such a dreadful sin, -that he could be making love to Laura? - -"What's the matter with you? What are you thinking about?" he asked -his wife. - -"Nothing, nothing." - -"What's the matter?" he insisted. - -"Don't ask me, don't ask me," she exclaimed, putting her hand over -his mouth. - -But one evening, when they were alone, and he again questioned her, -she answered, "It's because I love you so, Cesare, I love you so." - -"I know it," he said, with a light smile. "But it isn't only that, -dear Anna." - -And he playfully ruffled up her black hair. - -"You're right. It isn't only that. I'm jealous of you, Cesare." - -"And of what woman?" he asked, suddenly becoming cold and imperious. - -"Of all women. If you so much as touch a woman's hand, I am in -despair." - -"Of women in general?" - -"Of women in general." - -"Of no one in particular?" - -She hesitated for a moment. "Of no one in particular." - -"It's fancy, superstition," he said, pulling his moustache. - -"It's love, love," she cried. "Ah, if you should love another, I -would kill myself." - -"I don't think you'll die a violent death," said he, laughing. - -"Remember--darling--I would kill myself." - -"You'll live to be eighty, and die in your bed," he said, still -laughing. - -For a few days she was reassured. But on the first occasion, when her -husband and Laura again went out together, her jealousy returned, and -she suffered atrociously. Her conduct became odd and extravagant. -Sometimes she treated Laura with the greatest kindness; sometimes -she was rude to her, and would leave her brusquely, to go and shut -herself up in her own room. - -Laura asked no questions. - -"When are we going to leave Sorrento?" Anna asked. But her husband -did not answer, appearing to wish to prolong their sojourn there. - -"Let us go away, I beg you, Cesare." - -"So soon? Naples is empty at this season. There's nothing to do -there. We'd have the air of provincials." - -"That doesn't matter. Let us go away, Cesare." - -"You are bored, here in the loveliest spot in the world?" - -"Sorrento is lovely, but I want to go away." - -"As you wish," he said, suddenly consenting. "Give orders to the -servants to make ready." - -And, to avenge himself, he neglected her utterly during the last two -or three days, going off constantly with Laura. - -On the eve of their departure Luigi Caracciolo called, to make his -adieux. He found Anna alone. - -"Good evening, Signora Dias," he said, and the commonplace words had -an inflection of melancholy. - -"Good evening. You've not gone to the farewell dance at the Vittoria?" - -"I have no farewells to give except to you." - -"Farewell, then," she said, seating herself near him. - -"Farewell," he murmured, smiling, and looking into her eyes. "But we -shall meet again within a fortnight." - -"I don't know whether I shall be receiving so soon. I don't know -whether I shall receive at all." - -"You're going to shut your doors to me?" he asked, turning pale. - -"Not to you only, to everybody. I'm not made for society. I'm out of -place in it, out of tune with it. Solitude suits me better." - -"You will die of loneliness. Seeing a few devoted friends will do you -good." - -"My troubles are too deep." - -"Don't you think you're a little selfish? If you shut your doors, -others will suffer, and you don't care. You are willing to deprive -us of the great pleasure of seeing you. But don't you know that the -pain we give reacts upon ourselves? Don't be selfish." - -"It's true. I'm perhaps selfish. But who of us is perfect? The most -innocent, the purest people in the world, can make others unhappy, -without wishing to." - -He studied her, feeling that he was near to the secret of her sorrow. - -"Sorrento has bored you?" he asked. - -"Not exactly bored me. I have been unhappy here." - -"More unhappy than at Naples?" - -"More than at Naples." - -"And why?" - -"I don't know. I carry my unhappiness with me." - -"Did you imagine that Sorrento would make over the man you love?" - -"I hoped----" - -"Nothing can make that man over. He's not bad perhaps; but he's what -he is." - -"It's true." - -"Why, then, do you seek the impossible?" he went on. - -"And you--aren't you seeking the impossible?" she retorted. - -"Yes. But I stop at wishing for it. You see how reasonable I am. You -are sad, very sad, Anna, and not for my sake, for another's; yet I -should be so happy if I could help you or comfort you in any way." - -"Thank you, thank you," she replied, moved. - -"I believe that dark days are waiting for you at Naples. I don't wish -to prophesy evil, Anna, but that is my belief." - -"I'm sure of it," said she, and a sudden desperation showed itself in -her face. - -"Well, will you treat me as a friend, and remember me in your moments -of pain?" - -"Yes, I will remember you." - -"Will you call me to you?" - -"I will call upon you as upon a brother." - -"Listen, Anna. Officially I live with my mother in our old family -palace. But my real home is the Rey Villa in the Chiatamone. I -promise you, Anna, that I am speaking to you now, as I would speak to -my dearest sister. Remember this, that, beginning a fortnight hence, -I will wait there every day till four o'clock in the afternoon, to -hear from you. I shall be quite alone in the house, Anna. You can -come without fear, if you need me. Or you can send for me. My dearest -hope will be in some way to serve you. I will obey you like a slave. -Anna, Anna, when your hour of trouble arrives, remember that I am -waiting for you. When you have need of a friend's help, remember that -I am waiting." - -"But why do you give me your life like this?" - -"Because it is good to give it thus. You, if you loved, would you not -do the same?" - -"I would do the same. I would give my life." - -"You see! But forget that word love; it escaped me involuntarily. -It is not the man who loves you, it is the devoted friend, it is -the brother, whom you are to remember. My every day will be at your -disposal. I swear that no unhallowed thought shall move me." - -"I believe you," she said. - -She gave him her hand. He kissed it. - - - - - IV. - -Anna was as good as her word, and on her return to Naples shut -herself up in solitude and silence, receiving no one, visiting no -one, spending much of her time in her own room, going in the morning -for long walks in the hope of tiring herself out, speaking but -little, and living in a sort of moral somnolence that seemed to dull -her sorrows. Her husband and sister continued to enjoy their liberty, -as they had enjoyed it at Sorrento. She left them to themselves. She -was alternately consumed by suspicions and remorseful for them. In -vain she sought comfort from religion, her piety could not bear the -contact of her earthly passion, and was destroyed by it. She had gone -to her confessor, meaning to tell him everything, but when she found -herself kneeling before the iron grating, her courage failed her; she -dared not accuse her husband and her sister to a stranger. So she -spoke confusedly and vaguely, and the good priest could give her only -vague consolation. - -She abandoned herself to a complete moral prostration. She passed -long hours motionless in her easy-chair, or on her bed, in a sort of -stupor and often was absent from table, on one pretext or another. - -"The Signora came home an hour ago, and is lying down," said Cesare's -man-servant. - -"Very good. Don't disturb her," returned his master, with an air of -relief. - -"The Signora has a headache, and will not come to luncheon," said -Anna's maid to Laura. - -"Very good. Stay within call, if she should wish for anything," -responded Laura, serene and imperturbable. - -And Cesare and Laura merrily pursued their intimacy, never bestowing -a thought upon her whom they thereby wounded in every fibre of her -body, and in the essence of her soul. The anguish of jealousy is -like the anguish of death, and Anna suffered it to the ultimate -pang, at the same time despising herself for it, telling herself -that she was the most unjust of women. Her sister was purity itself; -her husband was incapable of evil; they were superior beings, worthy -of adoration; and she was daily thinking of them as criminals, and -covering them with mire. Often and often, in the rare moments when -her husband treated her affectionately, she longed to open her heart -and tell him everything. But his manner intimidated her, and she -dared not. She wondered whether she might not be mad, and whether her -jealousy was not the figment of an infirm mind. She had hoped to find -peace in flying from Sorrento; now her hope was undeceived; and Anna -understood that her pain came from within, not from without. To see -her sister and her husband together, seated side by side, walking -arm in arm, pressing each other's hands, looking and smiling at each -other, was more than she could bear; she fled their presence; she -left the house for long wanderings in the streets, or shut herself -up in her own room, knowing but too well that they would not notice -her absence. Indeed, it would be like a burden taken from their -shoulders, for she was a burden to them, with her pallor and her -speechlessness. - -"They are gay, and I bore them," she told herself. - -On several occasions, Cesare twitted her on the subject of her -continual melancholy, demanding its cause; but Anna, smarting under -his sarcasms, could not answer him. One day, in great irritation, -he declared that she had no right to go about posing as a victim, -for she wasn't a victim, and her sentimental vapourings bored him -immensely. - -"Ah, I bore you; I bore you," cried Anna, shaking with suppressed -sobs. - -"Yes, unspeakably. And I hope that some day or another you'll stop -boring me, do you hear?" - -"I had better die. That would be best," she sighed. - -"But can't you live and be less tiresome? Is it a task, a mission, -that you have undertaken, to bore people?" - -"I had better die, better die," she sobbed. - -He went off abruptly, cursing his lot, cursing above all the -monstrous error he had made in marrying this foolish creature. And -she, who had wished to ask his pardon, found herself alone. Later -in the same day she noticed that Laura treated her with a certain -contempt, shrugging her shoulders at the sight of her eyes red from -weeping. - -Anna determined that she would try to take on at least the external -appearances of contentment. The beautiful Neapolitan winter was -beginning. She had eight or ten new frocks made, and resolved to -become frivolous and vain. Whenever she went out she invariably -met Luigi Caracciolo; it was as if she had forewarned him of her -itinerary. He had divined it, with that fine intuition which lovers -have. They never stopped to speak, however; they simply bowed and -passed on. But in his way of looking at her she could read the words -of their understanding--"Remember, every day, till four o'clock." - -She threw herself into the excitements of society, going much to the -theatre and paying many calls. Cesare encouraged this new departure. - -The people amongst whom she moved agreed that she was very -attractive, but whispered that one day or another she would do -something wild. - -"What?" - -"Oh, something altogether extravagant." - -One evening towards the end of January Anna was going to the San -Carlo; it was a first night. At dinner she asked Laura if she would -care to accompany her. - -"No," answered Laura, absently. - -"Why not?" - -"I've got to get up early to-morrow morning, to go to Confession." - -"Ah, very well. And you--will you come, Cesare?" - -"Yes," he said, hesitating a little. - -"Cousin Scibilia is coming too," Anna added. - -"Then, if you will permit me, I'll not come till the second act." And -he smiled amiably. - -"Have you something to do?" - -"Yes; but we'll come home together." - -Anna turned red and white. There was something half apologetic in her -husband's tone, as if he had a guilty conscience in regard to her. -But what did that matter? The prospect of coming home together, alone -in a closed carriage, delighted her. - -She went to dress for the theatre. She put on for the first time -a gown of blue brocade, with a long train, bold in colour, but -admirably setting off the rich ivory of Anna's complexion. In her -black hair she fixed three diamond stars. She wore no bracelets, but -round her throat a single string of pearls. When she was dressed, she -sent for her husband. - -"You're looking most beautiful," he said. - -He took her hands and kissed them; then he kissed her fair round -arms; and then he kissed her lips. She thrilled with joy and bowed -her head. - -"We'll meet at the theatre," he said, "and come home together." - -She called for the Marchesa Scibilia, who now lived in the girls' -old house in the Via Gerolomini. And they drove on towards the -theatre. But when they reached the Toledo they were met by a number -of carriages returning. The explanation of this the two ladies -learned under the portico of the San Carlo. Over the white play-bill -a notice was posted announcing the sudden indisposition of the -prima-donna, and informing the public that there would accordingly -be no performance that evening. Anna had a lively movement of -disappointment, jumping out of her _coupé_ to read the notice for -herself. - -Luigi Caracciolo was waiting in the shadow of a pillar, sure that she -would come. - -"Marchesa, you have a very ferocious cousin," he said, stepping -forward to kiss the old lady's hand, and laughing at Anna's manifest -anger. Then he bowed to her, and in his eyes there was the eternal -message, "Remember, I wait for you every day." - -She shook her head in the darkness. She was bitterly disappointed. -Her evening was lost--the evening during which she had counted upon -being alone with Cesare in their box, alone with him in the carriage, -alone with him at home. And her beautiful blue gown; she had put it -on to no purpose. - -"What shall we do?" she asked her cousin. - -"I'm going home. I don't care to go anywhere else. And you?" - -"I'm going home, too." - -She half hoped that she might still find Cesare at the house, and so -have at least a half hour with him before he went out. He was very -slow about dressing; he never hurried, even when he had an urgent -appointment. Perhaps she would find him in his room, tying his white -tie, putting a flower in his button-hole. She deposited the Marchesa -Scibilia at the palace in the Via Gerolomini, and bade her coachman -hurry home. - -"Has the Signore gone out?" she asked the porter. - -No, he had not gone out. The porter was about to pull his bell-cord, -to ring for a footman, but Anna instinctively stopped him. She wished -to surprise her husband. She put her finger to her lips, smiling, as -she met one of the maids, and crossed the house noiselessly, arriving -thus at the door of Cesare's room, the door that gave upon the -vestibule, not the one which communicated with the passage between -his room and Anna's. - -The door was not locked. She opened it softly. She would surprise her -husband so merrily. But, having opened the door, she found herself -still in darkness, for Cesare had lowered the two _portières_ of -heavy olive velvet. - -A sudden interior force prevented Anna's lifting the curtains and -showing herself. She remained there behind them, perfectly concealed, -and able to see and hear everything that went on in the room, through -an aperture. - -Cesare was in his dress-suit, with an immaculate white waistcoat, a -watch-chain that went from his waistcoat-pocket to the pocket of his -trousers, with a beautiful white gardenia in his button-hole, his -handsome black moustaches freshly curled, and his whole air one of -profound satisfaction. He was seated in a big leather arm-chair, his -fine head resting on its brown cushions, against which the pallor of -his face stood out charmingly. - -He was not alone. - -Laura, dressed in that soft white wool which seemed especially -woven for her supple and flowing figure, with a bouquet of white -roses in the cincture that passed twice loosely round her waist, -with her blonde hair artistically held in place by small combs of -tortoise-shell, and forming a sort of aureole about her brow and -temples, the glory of her womanly beauty--Laura was in Cesare's room. - -She was not seated on one of his olive velvet sofas, nor on one of -his stools of carved wood, nor in one of his leather easy-chairs. She -was seated on the arm of the chair in which he himself reclined; she -was seated side wise, swinging one of her little feet, in a black -slipper richly embroidered with pearls, and an open-work black silk -stocking. - -One of her arms was extended across the cushion above Cesare's head; -and, being higher up than he, she had to bend down, to speak into his -face. She was smiling, a strange, deep smile, such as had never been -seen before upon the pure red curve of her lips. - -Cesare, with his face turned up, was looking at her; and every -now and then he took her hand and kissed it, a kiss that lingered, -lingered while she changed colour. - -He kissed her hand, and she was silent, and he was silent; but it -was not a sad silence, not a thoughtful silence. It was a silence -in which they seemed to find an unutterable pleasure. They found an -unutterable pleasure in their silence, their solitude, their freedom, -their intimate companionship, in the kiss he had just given her, and -which was the forerunner of many others. - -Anna had arrived behind the curtain at the very moment when Cesare -was kissing Laura's hand. She saw them gazing into each other's -eyes, speechless with their emotion. Anna could hear nothing but the -tumultuous beating of her own heart, a beating that leapt up to her -throat, making it too throb tumultuously. - -The fine white hand of Laura remained in Cesare's, softly surrendered -to him; then, as if the mere contact were not enough, his and her -fingers closely interlaced themselves. The girl, who had not removed -her eyes from his, smiled languorously, as if all her soul were in -her hand, joined now for ever to the hand of Cesare; a smile that -confessed herself conquered, yet proclaimed herself triumphant. - -They did not speak. But their story spoke for itself. - -Anna saw how close they were to each other, saw how their hands -were joined, saw the glances of passionate tenderness that they -exchanged. Clearly, in every detail, she witnessed this silent scene -of love. Her heart, her temples, her pulses, pounded frightfully; her -nerves palpitated; and she said to herself: - -"Oh, I am dreaming, I am dreaming." - -Like one dreaming, indeed, she was unable to move, unable to cry out; -her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; she could not lift the -curtains; she could not advance, she could not tear herself away. -She could only stand there rigid as stone, and behold the dreadful -vision. Every line of it, every passing expression on Cesare's or -Laura's face, burned itself into her brain with fierce and terrible -precision. And in her tortured heart she was conscious of but one -mute, continuous, childlike prayer--not to see any longer that which -she saw--to be freed from her nightmare, waked from her dream. And -all her inner forces were bent upon the effort to close her eyes, to -lower her eyelids, and put a veil between her and that sight. Her -prayer was not answered; she could not close her eyes. - -Laura took her bouquet of white roses from her belt, and playfully -struck Cesare's shoulder with them. Then she raised them to her face, -breathing in their perfume, and kissing them. Smiling, she offered -Cesare the roses that she had kissed, and he with his lips drank her -kisses from them. After that, she kissed them again, convulsively, -turning away her head. Their eyes burned, his and hers. Again he -sought her kisses amongst the roses; and she put down her face to -kiss them anew, at the same time with him. And slowly, from the -cold, fragrant roses, their lips turned, and met in a kiss. Their -hands were joined, their faces were near together, their lips met in -a kiss, and their eyes that had burned, softened with fond light. - -"Perhaps I am mad," Anna said to herself, hearing the wild blows of -the blood in her brain. - -And, to make sure, wishing to be convinced that it was all an -hallucination, she prayed that they might speak; perhaps they were -mere phantoms sent to kill her. No sound issued from their lips. - -"Lord, Lord--a word," she prayed in her heart. "A sound--a proof that -they are real, or that they are spectres." - -She heard, indeed, a deep sigh. It came from Laura, after their long -kiss. The girl jumped up, freed her hands from Cesare's, and took two -or three steps into the room. She was nearer to Anna now. Her cheeks -were red, her hair was ruffled; and she, with a vague, unconscious -movement, lifted it up behind her ears. Her lips were parted in a -smile that revealed her dazzling teeth. Her gaze wandered, proud and -sad. - -"Heaven, heaven give her strength to go away. Give her strength, give -me strength," prayed Anna, in her dream, in her madness. - -But Laura had not the strength to go away. She returned to Cesare; -she sat down at his feet, looking up at him, smiling upon him, -holding his hand, adoring him. And Cesare, his eyes filled with -tears, kissed her lips again and again--a torrent of kisses. - -"Cesare cannot weep. They are phantoms. I am mad," said Anna. A -terrible fire leapt from her heart to her brain, making her tremble -as in a fever; and then a sudden cold seemed to freeze her. She had -heard. These phantoms had spoken. They were a man and a woman; they -were her husband, Cesare, and her sister Laura. Laura had drawn away -from Cesare's fury of kisses, and was standing beside him, while he, -still seated, held her two hands. They were smiling upon each other. - -"Do you love me?" he asked. - -"I love you," answered Laura. - -"How much do you love me?" - -"So much! So much!" - -"But how much?" - -"Absolutely." - -"And--how long will you love me, Laura?" - -"Always." - -Now Anna was shivering with cold. She was not mad. She was not -dreaming. Her teeth chattered. It seemed as if she had been standing -there for a century. She dreaded being discovered, as if she were -guilty of a crime. But she could not move, she could not go away. -It was too much, too much; she could not endure it! She covered her -mouth with her fan, to suffocate her voice, to keep from crying out, -and cursing God and love. Laura began to speak. - -"Do you love me?" she asked. - -"Yes, I love you." - -"How much do you love me?" - -"With all my heart, Laura." - -"How long have you loved me?" - -"Always." - -"How long will you love me?" - -"Always." - -Unendurable, unendurable! A wild anger tempted Anna to enter the -room, to tear down the curtains, to scream. It was unendurable. - -Cesare said to Laura, very softly, "Go away now." - -"Why, love?" - -"Go away. It is late. You must go." - -"Ah, you're a bad love--bad!" - -"Don't say that. Don't look like that. Go away, Laura." - -And fondly, he put his arm round her waist and led her to the door. - -She moved reluctantly, leaning her head upon his shoulder, looking up -at him tenderly. - -At the door they kissed again. - -"Good-bye, love," said Laura. - -"Good-bye, love," said Cesare. - -The girl went away. - -Cesare came back, looking exhausted, deathlike. He lit a cigarette. - -Anna, holding her breath, crossed the vestibule, the smoking-room, -the drawing-room, and at last reached her own room, and shut her door -behind her. She had run swiftly, instinctively, with the instinct -that guides a wounded animal. Her maid came and knocked. She called -to her that she did not need her. Then some one else knocked. - -"Anna, Anna," said the calm voice of her husband. - -"What do you want?" She had to lean on a chair, to keep from falling; -her voice was dull. - -"Was there no performance? Or were you ill?" - -"There was no performance." - -"Have you just returned?" - -"Yes, just returned." But the lie made her blush. - -"And your Highness is invisible? I should like to pay your Highness -my respects." - -"No," she answered, with a choking voice. - -"Good-bye, love," he called. - -"Oh, infamous, infamous!" she cried. - -But he had already moved away, and did not hear. - - * * * * * - -For a long while she lay on her bed, burying her face in her pillow, -biting it, to keep down her sobs. She was shivering with cold, in -spite of the feather coverlet she had drawn over her. All her flesh -and spirit were in furious revolt against the thing that she had seen -and heard. - -She rose, and looked round her room. It was in disorder--the dress -she had worn, her fan, her jewels tossed pell-mell hither and -thither. Slowly, with minute care, she gathered these objects up, and -put them in their places. - -Then she rang the bell. - -Her maid came, half asleep. - -"What time is it?" asked Anna, forgetting that on the table beside -her stood the clock that Cesare had given her. - -"It's one," responded the maid. - -"So late?" inquired her mistress. "You may go to bed." - -"And your Excellency?" - -"You can do nothing for me." - -But the maid began to smooth down the bed. Feeling the pillow wet -with tears, she said, with the affectionate familiarity of Neapolitan -servants, "Whoever is good suffers." - -The words went through her heart like a knife. Perhaps the servant -knew. Perhaps she, Anna, had been the only blind member of the -household. The whole miserable story of her desertion and betrayal -was known and commented upon by her servants; and she was an object -of their pity! Whoever is good suffers! - -"Good night, your Excellency, and may you sleep well," said the maid. - -"Thank you. Good-night." - -She was alone again. She had not had the courage to ask whether her -husband had come home; he was most probably out, amusing himself in -society. - -For a half hour she lay on her sofa; then she got up. A big lamp -burned on her table, but before going away her maid had lighted -another lamp, a little ancient Pompeian lamp of bronze that in old -times had doubtless lighted Pompeian ladies to their trysts. - -Anna took this lamp and left her room. The house was dark and silent. -She moved towards Laura's room; and suddenly she remembered another -night, like this, when she had stolen through a dark sleeping house -to join Giustino Morelli on the terrace, and offer to fly with him. -Giustino Morelli, who was he? what was he? A shadow, a dream. A thing -that had passed utterly from her life. - -At her sister's door she paused for a moment, then she opened it -noiselessly, and guided by the light of her lamp, approached her -sister's bed. Laura was sleeping peacefully; Anna held up her lamp -and looked at her. - -She smiled in her sleep. - -"Laura!" Anna called, so close to her that her breath fell on her -cheek. "Laura!" - -Her sister moved slightly, but did not wake. - -"Laura! Laura!" - -Her sister sat up. She appeared frightened for a moment, but then she -composed herself with an effort. - -"It is I, Laura," said Anna, putting her lamp on a table. - -"I see you," returned Laura. - -"Get up and come with me." - -"What for?" - -"Get up and come, Laura." - -"Where, Anna?" - -"Get up and come," said Anna, implacably. - -"I won't obey you." - -"Oh, you'll come," cried Anna, with an imperious smile. - -"You're mistaken. I'll not come." - -"You'll come, Laura." - -"No, Anna." - -"You're very much afraid of me then?" - -"Here I am. I'll go where you like," Laura said, proudly, resenting -the imputation of fear. And she began to dress. - -Anna waited for her, standing up. Laura proceeded calmly with her -toilet. But when she came to put on her frock of white wool, Anna -had a mad access of rage, and covered her face with her hands, to -shut out the sight. Four hours ago, only four hours ago, in that same -frock, Laura had been kissed by Cesare. Her sister seemed to her the -living image of treachery. - -Laura moved about the room as if she was hunting for something. - -"What are you doing?" asked Anna. - -"I am looking for something." - -And she drew from under a pocket-handkerchief her bunch of white -roses. - -"Throw those flowers away," cried Anna. - -"And why?" - -"Throw those flowers away, Laura, Laura." - -"No." - -"By our Lady of Sorrows, I beseech you, throw them away." - -"You have threatened me. You have no further right to beseech me," -said Laura quietly, putting the flowers in her belt. - -"Oh God!" cried Anna, pressing her hands to her temples. - -"Let us go," she said at last. - -Laura followed her across the silent house to her room. - -"Sit down," said Anna. - -"I am waiting," said Laura. - -"Then you don't understand?" asked Anna, smiling. - -"No--I understand nothing." - -"Can't you imagine?" - -"I have no imagination." - -"And your heart--does your heart tell you nothing, Laura? Laura, -Laura, does your conscience tell you nothing?" - -"Nothing," said the other quietly, lifting up the rich blonde hair -behind her ears. The same gesture that Anna had seen her make in -Cesare's room. - -"Laura, you are my husband's mistress," Anna said, raising her arms -towards heaven. - -"You're mad, Anna." - -"My husband's mistress, Laura." - -"You're mad." - -"Oh, liar, liar! Disloyal and vile woman, who has not even the -courage of her love!" cried Anna, starting up, with flaming eyes. - -"Beware, Anna, beware. Strong language at a moment like this is -dangerous. Say what you've got to say clearly; but don't insult me. -Don't insult me, because your diseased imagination happens to be -excited. Do you understand?" - -"Oh, heavens, heavens!" exclaimed Anna. - -"But you can see for yourself, you're mad. You see, you have nothing -to say to justify your insults." - -"Oh, Madonna, Madonna, give me strength," prayed Anna, wringing her -hands. - -"Do you see?" asked Laura. "You've called me here to vilify my -innocence." - -"Laura," said poor Anna, trembling, "Laura, it's no guess of mine, no -inference, that you are my husband's mistress. I have not read it in -any anonymous letter. No servant has told me it. In such a case as -this no one has a right to believe an anonymous letter or a servant's -denunciation. One cannot on such grounds withdraw one's respect from -a person whom one loves." - -"Well, Anna." - -"But I have seen, I have seen," she cried, prey to so violent an -emotion that it seemed to her as if the thing she had seen was -visible before her again. - -"What have you seen?" asked Laura, suddenly. - -"Oh, horrible, horrible," cried Anna, remembering her vision. - -"What have you seen?" repeated Laura, seizing Anna's arm. - -"Oh, what a dreadful thing, what a dreadful thing," she sobbed, -covering her face with her hands. - -But Laura was herself consumed with anger and pain; and she -drew Anna's hands from her face, and insisted, "Now--at this -very moment--you have got to tell me what you have seen. Do you -understand?" - -And the other, turning pale at her threatening tone, replied: "You -wish to know what I have seen, Laura? And you ask me in a rage -of offended innocence, of wounded virtue? You are angry, Laura? -Angry--you? What right have you to be angry, or to speak to me as -you have done? Aren't you afraid? Have you no fear, no suspicions, -nothing? You threaten me; you tell me I am mad. You want to know what -I have seen; and you are haughty because you deem yourself secure, -and me a madwoman. But, to be secure, you should close the doors -behind you when you go to an assignation. When you are speaking of -love, and kissing, to be secure you should close the doors, Laura, -close the doors." - -"I don't understand you," murmured Laura, very pale. - -"This evening, at nine o'clock, when you were in Cesare's room--I -came home suddenly--you weren't expecting me--you were alone, -secure--and I saw through the door----" - -"What?" demanded the other, with bowed head. - -"As much as can be seen and heard. Remember." - -Laura fell into a chair. - -"Why have you done this? Why? Why?" asked Anna. - -Laura did not answer. - -"Don't you dare to answer? Oh, see how base you are! See how -perfidious you are. What manner of woman are you? Why did you do it?" - -"Because I love Cesare." - -"O Lord, Lord!" cried Anna, breaking into desperate sobs. - -"Don't you know it? Haven't your eyes seen it? haven't your ears -heard it? Do you imagine that a woman such as I am goes into a man's -room if she doesn't love him! That she lets him kiss her, that she -kisses him, unless she loves him! What more have you to ask! I love -Cesare." - -"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet," said Anna. - -"And Cesare loves me," Laura went on. - -"Be quiet. You are my sister. You are a young girl. Don't speak such -an infamy. Be quiet. Don't say that you and Cesare are two monsters." - -"You have seen us together. I love Cesare, and he loves me." - -"Monstrous, infamous!" - -"It may be infamous, but it is so." - -"But don't you realise what you are doing! Don't you feel that it is -infamous; Don't you understand how dreadful your offence is! Am I not -your sister--I whom you are betraying!" - -"I loved Cesare from the beginning. You betrayed me." - -"The excuse of guilt! I loved him, I love him. You are betraying me." - -"You love him stupidly, and bore him; I love him well." - -"He's a married man." - -"He was married by force, Anna." - -"He is my husband." - -"Oh, very slightly!" - -"Laura!" exclaimed Anna, wounded to the quick, she who was all wounds. - -"I'm not blind," said Laura, tranquilly. "I can take in the -situation." - -"But your conscience! But your religion! But your modesty, which is -soiled by such an atrocious sin!" - -"I'm not your husband's mistress, you know that yourself." - -"But you love him. You thrill at the touch of his hand. You kiss him. -You tell him you love him." - -"Well, all that doesn't signify that I'm his mistress." - -"The sin is as great." - -"No, it's not as great, Anna." - -"It's a deadly sin merely to love another woman's husband." - -"But I'm not his mistress. Be exact." - -"A change of words; the sin is the same." - -"Words have their importance; they are the symbols of facts." - -"It's an infamy," said Anna. - -"Anna, don't insult me." - -"Insult you! Do you pretend that that pretty pure face of yours is -capable of blushing under an insult? Can your chaste brow be troubled -by an insult? You have trampled all innocence and all modesty under -foot--you, the daughter of my mother! You have broken your sister's -heart--you, the daughter of the same mother! And now you say that I -insult you. Good!" - -"You have no right to insult me." - -"I haven't the right? Before such treachery? I haven't the right? -Before such dishonour?" - -"If you will call upon your memory, you will see that you haven't the -right." - -"What do you wish me to remember?" - -"A single circumstance. Once upon a time, you, a girl like me, -abandoned your home, and eloped with a man you loved, a nobody, a -poor obscure nobody. Then you deceived me, Cesare, and everybody -else. By that elopement you dishonoured the graves of your father and -mother, and you dishonoured your name which is also mine." - -"Oh, heavens, heavens, heavens!" cried Anna. - -"You passed a whole day out of Naples, in an inn at Pompeii, alone -the whole day with a man you loved, in a private room." - -"I wasn't Giustino Morelli's mistress." - -"Exactly. Nor am I Cesare Dias'." - -"I wasn't Giustino Morelli's mistress," repeated Anna. - -"I wasn't behind the door, as you were, to see the truth." - -"Oh, cruel, wicked sister--cruel and wicked!" - -"And please to have the fairness to remember that on that day Cesare -Dias rushed to your rescue. In charity, without saying a word to -reproach you, he brought you back to the home you had deserted. In -charity, without insulting you, I opened my arms to welcome you. In -charity we nursed you through your long illness, and never once did -we reproach you. You see, you see, you're unjust and ungrateful." - -"But you have wounded me in my love, Laura. But I adore Cesare, and I -am horribly jealous of him. I can't banish the thought of your love -for him; I can remember nothing but your kisses. I feel as if I were -going mad. Oh, Laura, Laura, you who were so pure and beautiful, you -who are worthy of a young man's love, why do you throw away your life -and your honour for Cesare?" - -"But you? Don't you also love him? You too are young. Yet didn't you -love him so desperately that you would gladly have died, if he hadn't -married you? I have followed your example, that is all. As you love -him, I love him, Anna. We are sisters, and the same passion burns in -our veins." - -"Don't say that, don't say it. My love will last as long as my life, -Laura." - -"And so will mine." - -"Don't say it, don't say it." - -"Until I die, Anna." - -"Don't say it." - -"My blood is like yours; my nerves are like yours; my heart is as -ardent as yours. My soul is consumed with love, as yours is. We are -the daughters of the same parents. Cesare has fascinated you, Cesare -has fascinated me." - -"Oh, heavens, heavens! I must kill myself then. I must die!" - -"Bah!" said Laura, with a movement of disdain. - -"I will kill myself, Laura." - -"Those who say it don't do it." - -"You are deceiving yourself, wicked, scornful creature." - -"Those who say it don't do it," repeated Laura, laughing bitterly. - -"But understand me! I can't endure this betrayal. Understand! I--I -alone have the right to love Cesare. He is mine. I won't give him up -to anybody. My only refuge, my only comfort, my only consolation is -in my love. Don't you see that I have nothing else?" - -"Luigi Caracciolo loves you, though," said Laura, smiling. - -"What are you saying to me?" - -"You might fall in love with him." - -"You propose an infamy to me." - -"But consider. I love Cesare; Cesare loves me and not you. But -Caracciolo loves you. Well, why not fall in love with him?" - -"Because it would be infamous." - -"You are beginning to insult me again, Anna. It is late. I am going -away." - -"No, don't go yet, Laura. Think how terrible this thing is for me. -Listen to me, Laura, and call to aid all your kindness. I have -insulted you, it is true; but you can't know what jealousy is like, -you can't imagine the unendurable torture of it. Call to aid your -goodness, Laura. Think--we were nourished at the same breast, the -same mother's hands caressed us. Think--we have made our journey in -life together. Laura, Laura, my sister! You have betrayed me; you -have outraged me; in the past seven hours I have suffered all that it -is humanly possible to suffer; you can't know what jealousy is like. -Don't be impatient. Listen to me. It is a terrible moment. Don't -laugh. I am not exaggerating. Listen to me carefully. Laura, all that -you have done, I forget it, I forgive it. Do you hear? I forgive you. -I am sure your heart is good. You will understand all the affection -and all the meekness there are in my forgiveness." - -And as if it were she who were the guilty one, she knelt before her -sister, taking her hand, kissing it, bathing it with her tears. -Laura, seeing this woman whom she had so cruelly wronged kneel -before her, closed her eyes, and for a moment was intensely pale. -But her soul was strong; she was able to conquer her emotion. For an -instant she was silent; then, coming to the supreme question of their -existence, she demanded: "And what do you expect in exchange for this -pardon?" She had the air of according a favour. - -"Laura, Laura, you must be good and great, since I have forgiven you." - -"What is your price for this forgiveness?" - -"You must not love Cesare any more. Bravely you must cast that impure -love out of your soul, which it degrades. You must not love him any -more. And then, not only will my pardon be complete and absolute, but -you will find in me the fondest and tenderest of sisters. I will -devote my life to proving to you how much I love you. My sole desire -will be to make you happy; I will be your best and surest friend. But -you must be good and strong, Laura; you must remember that you are my -sister; you must forget Cesare." - -"Anna, I cannot." - -"Listen, listen. Don't answer yet. Don't decide yet. Don't speak the -last word yet, the awful word. Think, Laura, it is your future, it -is your life, that you are staking upon this love: a black future, a -fatal certainty of death, if you persist in it. But, on the contrary, -if you forget it--if a chaste and innocent impulse of affection for -me persuades you to put it from you--what peace, what calm! You will -find another man, a worthier man, a man of your own loftiness of -spirit, who will understand you, who will make you happy, whom you -can love with all your soul, in the consciousness of having done your -duty. You will be a happy wife, your husband will be a happy man, you -will be a mother, you will have children--you will have children, -you! But you must not love Cesare any more." - -"Anna, I can't help it." - -"Laura, don't make your mind up yet. For pity's sake, hear me. We -must find a way out of it, an escape. You will travel, you will make -a journey, a long journey, abroad; that will interest you. I'll -ask Cousin Scibilia to go with you. She has nothing to detain her; -she's a widow; she will go. You will travel. You can't think how -travelling relieves one's sufferings. You will see new countries, -beautiful countries, where your mind will rise high above the petty, -every-day miseries of life. Laura, Laura, see how I pray you, see how -I implore you. We have the same blood in our veins. We are children -of the same mother. You must not love Cesare any more." - -"Anna, I can't help it." - -Anna moved towards her sister; but when she found herself face to -face with her, an impulse of horror repelled her. She went to the -window and stood there, gazing out into the street, into the great -shadow of the night. When she came back, her face was cold, austere, -self-contained. Her sister felt that she could read a menace in it. - -"Is that your last word?" asked Anna. - -"My last word." - -"You don't think you can change?" - -"I don't think so." - -"You know what you are doing?" - -"Yes, I know." - -"And you face the danger?" - -"Where is the danger?" asked Laura, rising. - -"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid," said Anna, carrying her -pocket-handkerchief to her lips and biting it. "I ask you if it -doesn't strike you as dangerous that two women such as I, Anna Dias, -and you, Laura Acquaviva, should live together in the same house and -love the same man with the same passion?" - -"It is certainly very dangerous," said Laura slowly, standing up, and -looking into her sister's eyes. - -"Leave me my husband, Laura," cried Anna, impetuously. - -"Take him back--if you can. But you can't, you know. You never could." - -"You're a monster. Go away," cried Anna, clenching her teeth, -clenching her fists, driving her nails into her flesh. - -"It's at your bidding that I'm here. I came to show that I wasn't -afraid of you, that's all." - -"Go away, monster, monster, monster!" - -"Kill me, if you like; but don't call me by that name," cried Laura, -at last exasperated. - -"You deserve that I should kill you, it is true. By all the souls -that hear me, by the souls of our dead parents, by the Madonna, who, -with them, is shuddering in heaven at your crime, you deserve that I -should kill you!" - -"But Cesare would weep for me," taunted Laura, again mistress of -herself. - -"It is true," rejoined Anna, icily. "Go away then. Go at once." - -"Good-bye, Anna." - -"Good-bye, Laura." - -Leisurely, collectedly, she turned her back upon her sister, and -moved away, erect and supple in her white frock, with her light -regular footstep. Her hand turned the knob of the door, but on the -threshold she paused, involuntarily, and looked at Anna, who stood in -the middle of the room with her head bowed, her cheeks colourless, -her eyes expressionless, her lips violet and slightly parted, -testifying to her fatigue. Laura's hesitation was but momentary. -Shrugging her shoulders at that spectacle of sorrow, she closed the -door behind her, and went off through the darkness to her own room. - -Anna was alone. And within herself she was offering up thanks to the -Madonna for having that night saved her from a terrible temptation. -For, from the dreadful scene that had just passed, only one thought -remained to her. She had besought her sister not to love Cesare any -more, promising in exchange all the devotion of her soul and body; -and Laura had thrice responded, obstinately, blindly, "I can't help -it." Well, when for the third time she heard those words, a sudden, -immense fury of jealousy had seized her; suddenly a great red cloud -seemed to fall before her eyes, and the redness came from a wound -in her sister's white throat, a wound which she had inflicted; and -the pale girl lay at her feet lifeless, unable for ever to say again -that she loved Cesare and would not cease to love him. Ah, for a -minute, for a minute, murder had breathed in Anna's poor distracted -heart, and she had wished to kill the daughter of her mother! Now, -with spent eyes, feeling herself lost and dying at the bottom of an -abyss, she uttered a deep prayer of thanksgiving to God, for that He -had swept the red cloud away, for that He had allowed her to suffer -without avenging herself. Slowly, slowly she sank upon her knees, -she clasped her hands, she said over all the old simple prayers of -her childhood, the holy prayers of innocence, praying that still, -through all the hopeless misery that awaited her, she might ever be -what she had been to-night, a woman capable of suffering everything, -incapable of revenge. And in this pious longing her soul seemed to be -lifted up, far above all earthly pain. - -All her womanly goodness and weakness were mingled in her -renunciation of revenge. - -The violent energy which she had shown in her talk with Laura had -given place to a mortal lassitude. She remained on her knees, and -continued to murmur the words of her orisons, but now she no longer -understood their meaning. Her head was whirling, as in the beginning -of a swoon. She dragged herself with difficulty to her bed, and threw -herself upon it, inert as a dead body, in utter physical exhaustion. - -Laura had undone her. The whole long scene between them repeated -itself over and over in her mind; again she passed from tears to -anger, from jealousy to pleading affection; again she saw her -sister's pure white face, and the cynical smile that disfigured it, -and its hard incapacity for pity, fear, or contrition. Laura had -overthrown her, conquered her, undone her. Anna had gone to her, -strong in her outraged rights, strong in her offended love, strong -in her knowledge of her sister's treachery; she had expected to see -that proud brow bend before her, red with shame; she had expected -to see those fair hands clasped and trembling, imploring pardon; -she had expected to hear that clear voice utter words of penitence -and promises of atonement. But far from that, far from accepting -the punishment she had earned, the guilty woman had boldly defended -her guilt; she had refused with fierce courage to give way; she -had clung to her infamy, challenging her sister to do her worst. -Anna understood that not one word that she had spoken had made the -least impression upon Laura's heart, had stirred in it the faintest -movement of generosity or affection; she understood that from -beginning to end she had failed and blundered, knowing neither how to -punish nor how to forgive. - -"I did not kill her. She has beaten me!" she thought. - -And yet Anna was in the right; and Laura, by all human and all moral -law, was in the wrong. To love a married man, to love her sister's -husband, almost her own brother! Anna was right before God, before -mankind, before Cesare and Laura themselves. If, when her sister had -refused to surrender her husband to her, she had killed her, no human -being would have blamed her for it. - -"And yet I did not kill her. She has beaten me!" - -She tried to find the cause of her defeat, overwhelmed by the despair -with which good people see wrong and injustice triumph. She sought -for the cause of her defeat, but she could find none, none. She was -right--according to all laws, human and divine, she was in the -right; she alone was right. Oh, her agony was insupportable, more and -more dreadful as she got farther from the fact, and could see it in -its full hideousness, examine and analyse it in its full infamy. - -"Beaten, beaten, beaten! bitterly worsted and overwhelmed!" - -For the third time in her life she had been utterly defeated. She -had not known how to defend herself; she had not known how to assert -her rights, and conquer. On that fatal day at Pompeii, when Giustino -Morelli had abandoned her; on that fatal night at Sorrento, when -Cesare Dias had proposed his mephistophelian bargain to her, whereby -she was to renounce love, dignity, and her every prerogative as a -woman and a wife; at Pompeii and at Sorrento she had been worsted by -those who were in the wrong, by Giustino Morelli who could not love, -by Cesare Dias who would not. - -And now again to-night--to-night, for the third time--betrayed by her -husband and her sister--she had not known how to conquer. At Naples, -as at Pompeii, as at Sorrento, she who was in the right had been -defeated by one who was in the wrong. - -"But why? why?" she asked herself, in despair. - -She did not know. It was contrary to all reason and all justice. She -could only see the fact, clear, cruel, inexorable. - -It was destiny. A secret power fought against her, and baffled -every effort she attempted. It was a fatality which she bore within -herself, a fatality which it was useless to resist. All she could -wish for now was that the last word might be spoken soon. - -"I must seek the last word," she thought. - -She rose from her bed, and looked at the clock. It was four in the -morning. - -She went to her writing-desk, and, leaning her head upon her hand, -tried to think what she had come there to do. Then she took a sheet -of paper, and wrote a few words upon it. But when she read them over, -they displeased her; she tore the paper up, and threw it away. She -wrote and tore up three more notes; at last she was contented with -this one: - -"Cesare, I must say something to you at once. As soon as you read -these words, no matter at what hour of the night or morning, come to -my room.--ANNA." - -She sealed the note in an envelope, and addressed it to her husband. -She left her room, to go to his. The door was locked; she could see -no light, hear no sound within. She slipped the letter through the -crack above the threshold. - -"Cesare shall speak the last word," she thought. - -She returned to her own room, and threw herself upon her bed to watch -and wait for him. - - - - - V. - -Anna got up and opened her window, to let in the sun, but it was a -grey morning, grey in sky and sea. Lead-coloured clouds rested on the -hill of Posillipo; and the wide Neapolitan landscape looked as if it -had been covered with ashes. Few people were in the streets; and the -palm in the middle of the Piazza Vittoria waved its long branches -languidly in the wintry breeze. - -Her eyes were burning and her eyelids were heavy. She went into her -dressing-room and bathed her face in cold water. Then she combed -her hair and fastened it up with a big gold pin. And then she put -on a gown of black wool, richly trimmed with jet, a morning street -costume. Was she going out? She did not know. She dressed herself in -obedience to the necessity which women feel at certain hours of the -day to occupy themselves with their toilets. But when she came to -fasten her brooch, a clover leaf set with black pearls, that Laura -had given her for a wedding-present, she discovered that one of the -pearls was gone. The clover-leaf brings luck, but now this one was -broken, and its power was gone. - -Eleven o'clock struck, and somebody tapped discreetly at the door. -She could not find her voice, to answer. - -The knock was repeated. - -"Come in," she said feebly. - -Cesare entered, calm and composed, carrying his hat and ebony -walking-stick in his hand. - -"Good-morning. Are you going out?" he asked tranquilly. - -"No. I don't know," she answered, with a vague gesture. - -All her nerves were tingling, as she looked at the traitor's -handsome, wasted face, a face so quiet and smiling. - -"You had something to say to me?" he reminded her, wrinkling his brow -a little. - -"Yes." - -"I came home late. I didn't want to disturb you," he said, producing -a cigarette, and asking permission with a glance to light it. - -"You would not have disturbed me." - -"I suppose it's nothing of much importance." - -"It's a thing of great importance, Cesare." - -"As usual," he said, with the shadow of a smile. - -"I swear to you by the memory of my mother that nothing is more -important." - -"Goodness gracious! Act three, scene four!" he exclaimed ironically. - -"Scene last," she said, dully, tearing a few beads from her dress, -and fingering them. - -"So much the better, if we are near the end. The play was rather -long, my dear." He was tapping his boot with his walking-stick. - -"We will cut it short, Cesare. I have a favour to ask of you. Will -you grant it?" - -"Ask, oh lovely lady; and in spite of the fact that last night you -closed your door upon me, here I am, ready to serve you." - -"I have a favour to ask, Cesare." - -"Ask it, then, before I go out." - -"I want to make a long journey with you--to be gone a year." - -"A second honeymoon? The like was never known." - -"A journey of a year, do you understand? Take me as your travelling -companion, your friend, your servant. For a year, away from here, far -away." - -"Taking with us our sister, our governess, our dog, our cat, and the -whole menagerie?" - -"We two alone," she said. - -"Ah," said he. - -"What is your decision?" - -"I will think about it." - -"No. You must decide at once." - -"What's the hurry? Are we threatened with an epidemic?" - -"Decide now." - -"Then I decide--no," he said. - -"And why?" she asked, turning pale. - -"Because I won't." - -"Tell me your reason." - -"I don't wish to travel." - -"You have always enjoyed travelling." - -"Well, I enjoy it no more. I am tired, I am old, I will stay at home." - -"I implore you, let us go away, far from here." - -"But why do you want to go away?" - -"Listen. Don't ask me. Say yes." - -"Why do you want to go away, Anna?" - -"Because, I want to go. Do me the favour." - -"Is my lady flying from some danger that threatens her virtue? From -some unhappy love?" - -"There's something more than my virtue in danger. I am flying from an -unhappy love, Cesare," she said gravely, shutting her eyes. - -"Heavens! And am I to mix myself up in these tragical complications? -No, Anna, no, I sha'n't budge." - -"Is there no prayer that can move you. Will you always answer no?" - -"I shall always say no." - -"Even if I begged you at the point of death?" - -"Fortunately your health is excellent," he rejoined, smiling slightly. - -"We may all die--from one moment to another," she answered, simply. -"Let us go away together, Cesare." - -"I have said no, and I mean no, Anna. Don't try to change me. You -know it's useless." - -"Then will you grant me another favour? This one you will grant." - -"Let's hear it." - -"Let us go and live alone in the palace in Via Gerolimini." - -"In that ugly house?" - -"Let us live there alone together." - -"Alone? How do you mean?" - -"Alone, you and I." - -"Without Laura?" - -"Without Laura." - -"Ah," he said. - -She looked at him pleadingly, and in her brown eyes he must have been -able to read the sorrowful truth. But he had no pity; he would not -spare her the bitter confession of it. - -"Be frank," he said, with some severity. "You wish to separate from -your sister!" - -"Yes." - -"And why? Tell me the reason." - -"I can't tell you. I wish to separate from Laura." - -"When?" - -"At once. To-day." - -"Indeed? Have you had a quarrel? I'll be peacemaker." - -"I doubt it," she said, with a strange smile. - -"If you'll tell me what you've quarrelled about, I'll make peace -between you." - -"But why do you ask these questions and make these offers? I want to -separate from my sister. That is all." - -"And I don't wish to," he said, looking coldly into his wife's eyes. - -"You don't wish to be parted from Laura!" she cried, feeling her feet -giving way beneath her. - -"I don't indeed." - -"Then I will go away myself, she cried, her brain reeling. - -"Do as you like," he answered, calmly. - -"Oh, heaven help me," she murmured, under her breath, staggering, -losing all her strength. - -"Now we have come to the fainting-fit," said Cesare, looking at her -scornfully, "and so will end this scene of stupid jealousy." - -"What jealousy! Who has spoken of jealousy?" she asked haughtily. - -"Must I inform you that you have done nothing else for the past -half-hour! It strikes me that you have lost the little good sense you -ever had. And I give you notice that I'm not going to make myself -ridiculous on your account." - -"You wish to stay with Laura!" - -"Not only I, but you too. For the sake of the world's opinion, as -well as for our own sakes, we can't desert the girl. She's been -confided to our protection. It would be a scandal which I'll not -permit you to make. If I have to suffer a hundred deaths, I'll not -allow you to make a scandal. Do you understand!" - -She looked at him, changing colour, feeling that her last hope was -escaping her. - -"And then," he went on, "I don't know your reasons for not wishing -to live any longer with your sister. She's good, she's well-behaved, -she's serious; she gives you no trouble; you have no right to find -fault with her. It's one of your whims--it's your everlasting desire -to be unhappy. Anyhow, your idiotic caprice will soon enough be -gratified. Laura will soon be married." - -"Do you wish Laura to marry!" - -"I wish it earnestly." - -"You'll be glad of it!" - -"Most glad," he answered, smiling. - -Ah, in the days of her womanly innocence, before her mind had been -opened to the atrocious revelations of their treason, she would not -have understood the import of that answer and that smile; but she -knew now the whole depth of human wickedness. He smiled, and curled -his handsome black moustaches. Anna lost her head. - -"Then you are more infamous than Laura," she cried. - -"The vocabulary of Othello," he cried, calmly. "But, you know, it has -been proved that Othello was epileptic." - -"And he killed Desdemona," said Anna. - -"Does it strike you that I look like Desdemona?" - -"Not you, not you." - -"And who then?" - -"Laura." - -"Your folly is becoming dangerous, Anna." - -"Imminently, terribly dangerous, Cesare." - -"Fortunately you take it out in words, not in actions," he concluded, -smiling. - -She wrung her hands. - -"Last night Laura owed her life to a miracle," she said. - -"But what has been going on here?" he exclaimed, agitated, rising to -his feet. "And where is Laura?" - -"Oh, fear nothing, fear nothing on her account. I've not harmed her. -She's alive. She's well. She's very well. No wrinkle troubles her -beauty, no anxiety disturbs her mind. Fear nothing. She is a sacred -person. Your love protects her. Listen, Cesare; she was here last -night alone in this room with me; and I had over her the right given -me by heaven, given me by men; and I _did not kill her_." - -Cesare had turned slightly pale; that was all. - -"And if it is permitted to talk in your own high-sounding rhetoric, -what was the ground of your right to kill her?" he asked, looking -at the handle of his walking-stick, and emphasising the disdainful -_you_.[F] - -"Laura has betrayed me. She's in love with you." - -"Nothing but this was lacking! That Laura should be in love with me! -I'm glad to hear it. You are sure of it? It's an important matter for -my vanity. Are you sure of it?" - -"Don't jeer at me, Cesare. You don't realise what you are doing. -Don't smile like that. Don't drive me to extremes." - -"There are two of you in love with me--for I suppose you still love -me, don't you? It's a family misfortune. But since you both adore me, -it's probably not my fault." - -"Cesare, Cesare!" - -"And confess that I did nothing to win you." - -"You have betrayed me, Cesare. You are in love with Laura." - -"Are you sure of it?" - -"Sure, Cesare." - -"But bear in mind that certainties are somewhat rare in this world. -For the past few minutes I've been examining myself, to discover if -indeed I had in my soul a guilty passion for Laura. Perhaps I am mad -about her, without knowing it. But you, who are an expert in these -affairs, you are sure of it. Have the goodness to explain to me, oh, -passionate Signora Dias, in what manner I have betrayed you, loving -your sister. Describe to me the whole blackness of my treason. Tell -me in what my--infamy--consists. Wasn't it infamy you called it? I'm -not learned in the language of the heart." - -"Oh, God! oh, God!" sobbed Anna, her face buried in her hands, -horrified at what she heard and saw. - -"I hope we've not to pass the morning invoking the Lord, the Virgin, -and the Saints. What do you suppose they care for your idiocy, Anna? -They are too wise; and I should be wiser if I cared nothing for it, -either. But when your rhetoric casts a slur upon others, it can't be -overlooked. I beg you, Signora Dias, to do your husband the kindness -of stating your accusations precisely. Set forth the whole atrocity -of his conduct. I fold my hands, and sit here on this chair like a -king on his judgment-seat. I wait, only adding that you have already -used up a good deal of my patience." - -"But has Laura told you nothing?" - -"Nothing, my dear lady." - -"Where is she?" - -"She's gone to church, I hear." - -"Quietly gone to church?" - -"Do you fancy that all women dance in perpetual convulsions to the -tune of their sentiments, Signora Dias? No, for the happiness of men, -no. Our dear and wise Minerva has gone to mass, for to-day is Sunday." - -"With that horrible sin on her conscience! Does she think she can lie -even to God? But it's a sacrilege." - -"Ah, we're to have a mystical drama, a passion-play now, are we? Dear -lady, I see that you have nothing to say to me, and I make my adieux." - -He started to go, but she barred the way to him. - -"Don't go, Cesare; don't leave me. Since you will have it so, -you shall hear from my lips, though they tremble with horror in -pronouncing it, the story of your infamy. I will repeat it to you -to-day as I repeated it to Laura last night; and I hope it may burn -in your heart as it burns in mine. Ah, you laugh; you have the -boldness to laugh. You treat this talk as a joke. You sneer at my -anger. You would like to get away from me. I annoy you. My voice -wearies you. And what I have to say to you will perhaps bring a -blush of shame even to your face, corrupt man that you are. But you -cannot leave me. You are obliged to remain here. You must give me an -account of your betrayal. Ah, don't smile, don't smile; that will do -no good; your smile can't turn me aside. I won't allow you to leave -me. Remember, Cesare, remember what you did last evening. Remember -and be ashamed. Remember how cruel, how wicked, how atrocious it was, -what happened last evening between you and my sister. Under my eyes -Cesare, and for long minutes, so that I could have no doubt. I could -not imagine that I was mad or dreaming. I saw it all, my ears heard -the words you spoke, the sound of your kisses, your long kisses. I -could not doubt. Oh, how horrible it is for a woman who loves to see -the proof that she is betrayed! What new, unknown capacities for -sorrow open in her soul! Oh, what have you done to me, Cesare, you -whom I adored! You and my sister Laura, what have you done to me!" - -She fell into a chair, crushing her temples between her hands. - -"Is it your habit to listen at doors? It's not considered good form," -said Cesare coldly. - -"Do you wish me to die, Cesare? How could you forget that I loved -you, that I had given you my youth, my beauty, all my heart, all my -soul, that I adored you with every breath, that you alone were the -reason for my being? You have forgotten all this, forgotten that I -live only for you, my love--you have forgotten it?" - -"These sentiments do you honour, though they're somewhat exaggerated. -Buy a book of manners, and learn that it's not the thing to listen at -doors." - -"It was my right to listen, do you understand? I was defending -my love, my happiness, my all; but the terrible thing I saw has -destroyed for ever everything I cared for." - -"Did you really see such a terrible thing?" he asked, smiling. - -"If I should live a thousand years, nothing could blot it from my -mind. Oh, I shall die, I shall die; I can only forget it by dying." - -"You are suffering from cerebral dilatation. It was nothing but a -harmless scene of gallantry--it was a jest, Anna." - -"Laura said that she loved you. I heard her." - -"Of course, girls of her age always say they're in love." - -"She kissed you, Cesare. I saw her." - -"And what of that? Girls of her age are fond of kissing. They're none -the worse for it." - -"She was in your arms, Cesare, and for so long a time that to me it -seemed a century." - -"It's not a bad place, you know, Signora Dias," he responded, smiling. - -"Oh, how low, how monstrous! And you, Cesare, you told her that you -loved her. I heard you." - -"A man always loves a little the woman that is with him. Besides, -I couldn't tell her that I hated her; it would scarcely have been -polite. I know my book of manners. There's at least one member of our -family who preserves good form." - -"Cesare, you kissed her." - -"I'd defy you to have done otherwise, if you'd been a man. You don't -understand these matters." - -"On the lips, Cesare." - -"It's my habit. It's not a custom of my invention, either. It's -rather old. I suspect it took its rise with Adam and Eve." - -"But she's a young girl, an innocent young girl, Cesare." - -"Girls are not so innocent as they used to be, Anna. I assure you the -world is changing." - -"She is my sister, Cesare." - -"That's a circumstance quite without importance. Relationship counts -for nothing." - -She looked at him with an expression of intense disgust. - -"You, then, Cesare," she said, "have no sense of the greatness of -this infamy. She at least, Laura, the other guilty person, turned -pale, was troubled, trembled with passion and with terror. You--no! -Here you have been for an hour absolutely imperturable; not a shade -of emotion has crossed your brazen face; your voice hasn't changed; -you feel no fear, no love, no shame; you are not even surprised. She -at least shuddered and cried out; she is an Acquaviva! It is true -that, though she saw my anger and my despair, she had neither pity -nor compunction, but her passion for you, at least, was undisguised. -She had feeling, strength, will. But you--no. You, like her, indeed, -could see me weep my heart out, could see me convulsed by the most -unendurable agony, and have not an ounce of pity for me; but your -hardness does not spring, like hers, from love; no, no; from icy -indifference. You are as heartless as a tombstone. She, at least, -has the courage, the audacity, the effrontery of her wickedness; she -declares boldly that she loves you, that she adores you, that she -will never cease to love you, that she will always adore you. She is -my sister. In her heart there is the same canker that is in mine--a -canker from which we are both dying. You--no! Love? Passion? Not even -an illusion. Nothing but a harmless scene of gallantry! A half-hour -of amusing flirtation, without consequence! But what does it mean, -then, to say that we love? Is it a lie that a man feels justified -in telling any woman? And what is a kiss? A fugitive contact of the -lips, immediately forgotten? So many false kisses are given in the -course of a day and night! Nonsense, triviality, rubbish! It's bad -form to spy at doors; its exaggeration to call a thing infamous; -it's madness to be jealous. And the sin that you have committed, -instead of originating in passion, which might in some degree excuse -it, you reduce to an every-day vulgarity, a commonplace indecency; -my sister becomes a vulgar flirt, you a vulgar seducer, and I a -vulgar termagant screaming out her morbid jealousy. The whole -affair falls into the mud. My sister's guilty love, your caprice, my -despair, all are in the mud, among the most disgusting human garbage, -where there is no spiritual light, no cry of sorrow, where everything -is permissible, where the man expires and the beast triumphs. Do you -know what you are, Cesare?" - -"No, I don't know. But if you can tell me, I shall be indebted for -the favour." - -"You are a man without heart, without conscience; a soul without -greatness and without enthusiasm; you are a lump of flesh, exhausted -by unworthy pleasures and morbid desires. You are a ruin, in heart, -in mind, in senses; you belong to the class of men who are rotten; -you fill me with fright and with pity. I did not know that I was -giving my hand to a corpse scented with heliotrope, that I was -uniting my life to the mummy of a gentleman, whose vitiated senses -could not be pleased by a young, beautiful, and loving wife, but must -crave her sister, her pure, chaste, younger sister! Have you ever -loved, Cesare? Have you ever for a moment felt the immensity of real -love? In your selfishness you have made an idol of yourself, an idol -without greatness. A thing without viscera, without pulses, without -emotion! You are corrupt, perverted, depraved, even to the point -of betraying your wife who adores you, with her sister whom you do -not love! Ah, you are a coward, a dastard; that's what you are, a -dastard!" - -She wrung her hands and beat her temples, pacing the room as a -madwoman paces her cell. But not a tear fell from her eyes, not a sob -issued from her breast. - -He stood still, his face impenetrable; not one of her reproaches -had brought a trace of colour to it. She threw herself upon a sofa, -exhausted; but her eyes still burned and her lips trembled. - -"Now that you have favoured me with so amiable a definition of -myself," said he, "permit me to attempt one of you." - -His tone was so icy, he pronounced the words so slowly, that Anna -knew he was preparing a tremendous insult. Instinctively, obeying the -blind anger of her love, she repeated, "You are a dastard; that's -what you are, a dastard." - -"My dear, you are a bore--that's what _you_ are." - -"What do you say?" she asked, not understanding. - -"You're a bore, my dear." - -The insult was so atrocious, that for the first time in the course -of their talk her eyes filled with tears, and a sigh burst from her -lips--lips that were purple, like those of a dying child. It seemed -as if something had broken in her heart. - -"Nothing but a bore. I don't employ high-sounding words, you see. I -speak the plain truth. You're a bore." - -Another sigh, a sigh of insupportable physical pain, as if the hard -word _bore_ had cut her flesh, like a knife. - -"You flatter yourself that you're a woman of grand passions," he went -on, after looking at his watch, and giving a little start of surprise -to see how much time he had wasted here. "No? You flatter yourself -that you're a creature of impulse, a woman with a fate, a woman -destined to a tragic end; and to satisfy this notion, you complicate -and embroil and muddle up your own existence, and mortally bore those -who are about you. With your rhetoric, your tears, your sobs, your -despair, your interminable letters, your livid face and your gray -lips, you're enough to bore the very saints in heaven." - -He pretended not to see her imploring eyes, which had suddenly lost -their anger, and were craving mercy. - -"Remember all the stupidities you've committed in the past four or -five years," he went on, "and all the annoyance you've given us. You -were a handsome girl, rich, with a good name. You might have married -any one of a dozen men of your own age, your own rank, gentlemen, who -were in love with you. That would have been sensible, orderly; you -would have been as happy as happy can be. But what! Anna Acquaviva, -the romantic heroine, condescend to be happy! No, no. That were -beneath her! So you had to fancy yourself in love with a beggar whom -you couldn't marry." - -She made a gesture, as if to defend Giustino Morelli. - -"Oh, did you really love him? Thanks for the compliment; you're -charming this morning. Passion, inequality of position, drama, flight -into Egypt, fortunately without a child--forgive the impropriety, but -it escaped me. Morelli, chancing to be a decent fellow, Morelli ran -away, poor devil! and our heroine treated herself to the luxury of a -mortal illness. We, Laura, I, everybody, were bored by the flight, -bored by the illness. The lesson was a severe one, and most women -would have been cured of their inclination towards the theatrical, as -well as of their scarlet fever. But not so Anna Acquaviva. It didn't -matter to her that she had risked her reputation, her honour; it -didn't matter to her that she had staked the name of her family; all -this only excited her imagination. And, behold, she begins her second -romance, her second drama, her second tragedy, and enter upon the -scene, to be bored to death, Signor Cesare Dias!" - -"Oh, Holy Virgin, help me," murmured Anna, pressing her hands to her -temples. - -"Dramatic love for Cesare Dias, an old man, a man who has never -gone in for passion, who doesn't wish to go in for it, who is tired -of all such bothersome worries. Anna Acquaviva gives herself up to -an unrequited love, 'one of the most desolating experiences of the -soul'--that's a phrase I found in one of your letters. Desolation, -torture, spasms, despair, bitterness, these are the words which our -ill-fated heroine, Anna Acquaviva, employs to depict her condition -to herself and to others. And Cesare Dias, who had arranged his life -in a way not to be bored and not to bore anyone, Cesare Dias, who -is an entirely common and ordinary person, happy in his mediocrity, -suddenly finds himself against his will dragged upon the scene as -hero! He is the man of mysteries, the man who will not love or who -loves another, the superior man, the neighbour of the stars. And -nevertheless we find a means of boring him." - -"Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare!" she said, beseeching compassion. - -"Imbecile ought to be added to the name of Cesare Dias. That's the -title which I best deserve. Only an imbecile--and I was one for -half-an-hour--could have ceded to your sentimental hysterics. I -was an imbecile. But to let you die, to complete your tragedy of -unrequited love----" - -"Oh, why didn't you let me die?" she cried. - -"I believe it would have been as well for many of us. What a comfort -for you, dear heroine, to die consumed by an unhappy passion! Gaspara -Stampa, Properzia de' Rossi, and other illustrious ladies of ancient -times, with whose names you have favoured me in your letters, would -have found their imitator. I'm sure you would have died blessing me." - -Bowing her head, she sighed deeply, as if she were indeed dying. - -"Instead of letting you die, I went through the dismal farce of -marrying you. And I assure you that I've never ceased to regret it. I -regretted it the very minute after I'd made you my idiotic proposal. -Ah, well, every man has his moments of inexplicable weakness, and he -pays dearly for them. And marriage, alas, hasn't proved a sentimental -comedy. With your pretentions to passion, to love, to mutual -adoration, you've bored me even more than I expected." - -"But what, then, is marriage from your point of view?" she cried. - -"A bothersome obligation, when a man marries a woman like you." - -"You would have preferred my sister?" she asked, exasperated. But she -was at once sorry for this vulgarity; and he speedily punished it. - -"Yes, I should have preferred your sister. She's not a bore. I find -her extremely diverting." - -"She loved you from the beginning," she says. "A pity she didn't tell -you so." - -"A pity. I assure you I should have married her." - -"Ah, very well." - -But suddenly she raised her eyes to her husband; and at the sight of -that beloved person her courage failed her. She took his hand, and -said, "Ah, Cesare, Cesare, you are right. But I loved you, I loved -you, and you have deceived me with my sister." - -"Signora Dias, you have rather a feeble memory," he returned, icily, -drawing his hand away. - -"How do you mean?" - -"I mean that you easily forget. We are face to face; you can't lie. -Have I ever told you that I loved you?" - -"No--never," she admitted, closing her eyes agonised to have to admit -it. - -"Have I ever promised to love you?" - -"No--never." - -"Well, then, according to the laws of love, I've not deceived you, -my dear Anna. My heart has never belonged to you, therefore it's not -been taken from you. I promised nothing, therefore I owe you nothing." - -"It's true. You're right, Cesare," she said; draining this new cup of -bitterness that he had distilled for her. - -"Perhaps you will speak to me of the laws of the land. Very good; -according to the law a man and wife are required to be mutually -faithful. A magistrate would say that I had betrayed you. But -consider a little. Make an effort of memory, Anna, and recall -the agreement I proposed to you that evening at Sorrento, before -committing my grand blunder. I told you that I wished to remain -absolutely free, free as a bachelor; and you consented. Is it true or -not true?" - -"It is true. I consented." - -"I told you that I would tolerate no interference on your part with -my relations with other women; and remember, Anna, you consented. Is -that true or untrue?" - -"It is true," she said, feeling that she was falling into an abyss. - -"You see, therefore, that neither according to the laws of love nor -according to the laws of marriage have I betrayed you. And if you -had a conscience, to adopt your own phraseology, if you had the -least loyalty, you would at once confess that I have not betrayed -you. You accepted the whole bargain. I am free in heart, and at -liberty to do as I like. I have not betrayed you. Confess it." - -"Cesare, Cesare, be human, be Christian; don't require me to say -that." - -"Tragedies are one thing, and truth is another, Anna. I desire to -establish the fact that I haven't betrayed you, my dear. For what I -did last night, for what I may have done on any other night, for what -I may do any night in the future, I have your own permission. Confess -it." - -"I can't say that, do you understand?" she cried. "Oh, you are -always in the right; you always know how to put yourself in the -right. You are right in your selfishness, in your perfidy, in your -wickedness, in your frightful corruption; you were right in proposing -that disgraceful bargain to me, which I was not ashamed to accept, -and which you to-day so justly and so appropriately remind me of. -But I believed that to love, to adore a man as I loved and adored -you, would be a charm to conquer with; and I have lost. For you are -stronger than I; indifference is stronger than love; selfishness -is stronger than passion. Generous abandonment cannot overcome the -refined calculation of a corrupt man. I am wrong, I alone, I confess -it--since I loved you to the point of dying for you, since I imagined -that that was enough, since I had in my soul the divine hope of -winning you by my love. I am wrong, I confess it; yes, I confess -it. I cannot love nor hate nor live. I am nothing but a bore, a -superfluous person, and a tiresome; it is true; it is true. Say it -again." - -"If you wish it, I will." - -"You are right. You are always right. I have done nothing but -blunder. I have always obeyed the mad impulses of my heart. I fled -from my home. I ought not to have loved you, and I loved you. I -loved you; I have bored you; and I myself, of my free will, gave you -permission to betray me. You are the most vicious man I know. You're -unredeemed by a thought or a feeling. You horrify me. Under the same -roof with your wife, you have committed an odious sin--a sin that -would make the worst men shudder. And I can't punish you, because -I consented to it; because I debased the dignity of my love before -you; because indeed I am a cowardly and infamous creature. See how -right you are! You have sinned, but so far as I am concerned you -are innocent. I am infamous and cowardly, because I ought to have -died rather than accept that loathsome bargain. Forgive me if I have -upbraided you. I'll ask Laura's pardon too. No human being is soiled -with an infamy so great as mine. Forgive me." - -Perhaps he felt in these words the confusion of madness; perhaps he -saw the light of madness in her eyes. But he was unmoved. She was a -woman who had led him into committing a folly, who had bored him, -and, what was more, who would like to continue to bore him in the -future. He was unmoved. He was glad to have got the better of her in -this struggle. He was unmoved. He thought it time to leave her, if he -would retain his advantage. - -"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising. - -"Don't go away, don't go away," she cried, throwing herself before -him. - -"Do you imagine that this duet is pleasing?" he asked, drawing on his -gloves. "For the rest, we've said all there is to say. I can't think -you have any more insults to favour me with." - -"You hate me, do you?" - -"No, I don't hate you exactly." - -"Don't go away. Don't go away. I must tell you something very -serious." - -"Good-bye, Anna," he repeated, moving towards the door. - -"Cesare, if you go away, I shall do something desperate," she cried, -convulsively tearing her hair. - -"You'd be incapable. To do anything desperate one must have talent. -And you're a fool," he replied, smiling ironically. - -"Cesare, if you go away, I shall die." - -"Bah, bah, you'll not die. To die one must have courage." And he -opened the door and went out. - -She ran to the threshold. He was already at a distance. She heard -the street door close behind him. For a few minutes she stood there, -fearing to move lest she should fall; then mechanically she turned -back. She went to her looking-glass, repaired the disorder of her -hair, and put on a hat, a black veil, and a sealskin cloak. She -forgot nothing. Her pocket-handkerchief was in her muff; in her hand -she carried her card-case of carved Japanese ivory. - -At last she left her room, and entered her husband's. A servant was -putting it in order; but, seeing his mistress, he bowed and took -himself off. She was alone there, in the big brown chamber, in the -gray winter daylight. She went to her husband's desk, and sat down -before it, as if she were going to write. But, after a moment's -thought, she did not write. She opened a drawer, took something from -it, and concealed it in her pocket. - -After that, she passed through the house and out into the street. - -She crossed the Piazza Vittoria, and entered the Villa Nazionale. -Children were playing by the fountain, and she stopped for a moment -to look at them. Twice she made the tour of the Villa; then she -looked at her watch; then she seated herself on one of the benches. -There were very few people abroad. The damp earth was covered with -dead leaves. - -She fixed her eyes upon the dial of her watch, counting the minutes -and the seconds. All at once she put her hand into her pocket, and -felt the thing that she had hidden there. - -Anna rose. It was two o'clock. - -She left the Villa, walking towards the Chiatamone. Before the -door of a little house in the Via del Chiatamone she stopped. She -hesitated for a moment; then she lifted the bronze knocker, and let -it fall. - -The door was opened by Luigi Caracciolo. - -He did not speak. He took her hand, and drew her into the house. - -They crossed two antechambers, hung with old tapestries, ornamented -with ancient and modern arms, and with big Delft vases filled with -growing palms, a smoking-room furnished with rustic Swiss chairs and -tables, and entered a drawing-room. The curtains were drawn, the -lamps lighted. The floor and the walls were covered with Oriental -carpets; the room was full of beautiful old Italian furniture, -statues, pictures, bronzes. There were many flowers about, red and -white roses, subtly perfumed. - -Caracciolo took a bunch of roses, and gave them to Anna. - -"Dear Anna--my dear love," he said. - -A faint colour came to her cheeks. - -"What is it? Tell me, Anna. Dear one, dear one!" - -"Don't speak to me like that," she said. - -"Do I offend you? I can't think that I offend you--I who feel for you -the deepest tenderness, the most absolute devotion." - -He took her hands. - -"It is dark here," she said. - -"The day was so sad, the daylight was so melancholy. I have waited -for you so many hours, Anna." - -"I have come, you see." - -"Thank you for having remembered your faithful servant." And -delicately he kissed her gloved hand. - -"Why not open the curtains a little?" she asked. - -He drew aside his curtains, and let in the ashen light. She went to -the window, and looked out upon the sea. - -"Anna, Anna, come away. Somebody might see you." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"But I can't allow you to compromise yourself, Anna; I love you too -much." - -"I have come here to compromise myself," she said. - -"Then--you love me a little?" he demanded, trying to draw her away -from the window. - -She did not answer. She sat down in an arm-chair. - -"Tell me that you love me a little, Anna." - -"I don't love you." - -"Dear Anna, dear Anna," he murmured with his caressing voice, "how -can I believe you, since you are here. Tell me that you love me a -little. For three years I have waited for that word. Dear Anna, sweet -Anna, you know that I have adored you for so long a time. Anna, Anna!" - -"What has happened was bound to happen," she said. - -"Anna, I conjure you,[G] tell me that you love me." - -She shuddered as she heard him use the familiar pronoun. - -"Do you love me?" - -"I don't know. I know nothing." - -"Dear one, dear one," he murmured, trembling with hope, in an immense -transport of love. - -He drew nearer to her and kissed her on the cheek. - -A cry of pain burst from her, and she sprang up, horrified, -terrified, and tried to leave the room. - -"Oh, for mercy's sake, forgive me. Don't go away. Anna, Anna, forgive -me if I have offended you. I love you so! If you go away I shall die." - -"People don't die for such slight things." - -"People die of love." - -"Yes. But one must have courage to die." - -"Don't let us talk of these dismal things. My love, we mustn't talk -of things that will sadden you. Your beautiful face is troubled. Tell -me that you forgive me. Do you forgive me?" - -"I forgive you." - -"I don't believe it. You don't forgive me. You love another." - -"No, no--no other." - -"And Cesare?" - -But scarcely had he spoken the fatal name when he saw his error. Her -eyes blazed; she trembled from head to foot, in a nervous convulsion. - -"Listen," she said. "If you have a heart, if you have any pity, if -you wish me to stay here with you, never name him again, never name -him." - -"You are right." But then he added, "And yet you loved him, you love -him still." - -"No. I love no one any more." - -"Why would you not accept me when I proposed for you?" - -"Because." - -"Why did you marry that old man?" - -"Because." - -"And now why do you love him? Why do you love him?" - -"I don't know." - -"You see, you do love him," he cried in despair. - -"Oh, God, oh, God!" she sobbed. - -"Oh, I am a fool. Forgive me, forgive me. But I love you, and I lose -my head. I love you, and I am desperate. And I need to know if you -still love him. You will always love him? Is it so?" - -"Till death," she said, with a strange look and accent. - -"Say it again." - -"Till death," she repeated, with the same strange intonation. - -They were silent. - -Luigi Caracciolo put his arm round her waist, and drew her slowly -towards him. - -Her eyes were fixed and void. She did not feel his arms about her. -She did not feel his kisses. He kissed her hair, he kissed her sweet -white throat, he kissed her little rosy ear. Anna was absorbed in a -desperate meditation, far from all human things. He kissed her face, -her eyes, her lips; she did not know it. But suddenly she felt his -embrace become closer, stronger; she heard his voice change, it -was no longer tender and caressing, it was fervid with tumultuous -passion, it uttered confused delirious words. Silently, looking at -him with burning eyes, she tried to disengage herself. - -"Let me go," she said. - -"Anna, Anna, I love you so--I have loved you so long!" - -"Let me go, let me go!" - -"You are my adored one--I adore you above all things." - -"Let me go. You horrify me." - -He let her go. - -"But what have you come here for?" he asked, sorrowfully. - -"I have come to commit an infamy." - -"Anna, Anna, you are killing me!" - -She looked at him fixedly. - -"What is it, Anna? Something is troubling you, and you won't tell me -what it is. My poor friend! You have come here with an anguish in -your heart, wishing to escape from it; you have come here to weep; -and I have behaved like a brute, a blackguard." - -"No, you are good, I shall remember you," and she gave him her hand. - -"Don't go away. Tell me first what it is. Tell me what you came for. -Tell me, dearest Anna." - -"It's too long a story, too long," she said, as if in a dream, -passing her hand over her brow. "And now I must go, I must go." - -"No, stop here, talk to me, weep. It will do you good." - -"I can't." - -"Why?" - -"My minutes are numbered. You'll understand some day--to-morrow. Now -I must go." - -"Anna, how can I let you go like this? You have come here to be -comforted, and I have treated you shamefully. Forgive me." - -"You are not to blame, not in the least." - -"But what is it that you are in trouble about, Anna? Who has been -making you miserable, my poor fond soul? Whose fault is it? Who is to -blame? Cesare?" - -"No, I am to blame, I only." - -"And Cesare--you admit it." - -"No." - -"Cesare is an infamous scoundrel, and I know it," he exclaimed. - -"It is I who am infamous." - -"I don't believe you. I should believe no one who said that, Anna." - -"I must be infamous, since I alone am unhappy. I must go." - -"Will you come back?--to-morrow? Anna, you are so sad, you are in -such distress, I can't let you go." - -"No one can detain me, no one." - -"Anna, forget that I have spoken to you of love." - -"I have forgotten it. Good-bye." - -"You musn't go like this. You are too much agitated." - -"No, I am calm. Listen, will you do me a favour? You repeated some -verses to me one evening at Sorrento--some French verses--do you -remember?" - -"Yes. Baudelaire's '_Harmonie du Soir_,'" he answered, surprised by -her question. - -"Have you the volume?" - -"Yes." - -"Take it, and copy that poem for me. Afterwards I will say good-bye." - -He went into his library and brought back _Les Fleurs du Mal_. He -seated himself at his writing-table, and looked at Anna. There was an -expression of such immense sorrow in her eyes, that he faltered, and -asked, "Shall I write?" - -She bowed her head. While he was writing the first lines, Anna -turned her back to him. She put her hand into her pocket and brought -forth a little shining object of ivory and steel. He in a low voice -repeated the verse he was writing--"_Valse mélancolique et langoureux -vertige_"--when suddenly there was the report of a pistol, and a -little cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling. - -Anna had shot herself through the heart, and fallen to the floor. -Her little gloved hand held the revolver that she had taken from the -drawer of her husband's desk. Luigi Caracciolo stood rooted to the -carpet, believing that he must be mad. - -So died Anna Acquaviva, innocent. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[F] _Voi_, instead of the more familiar _tu_, which he had previously -employed. - -[G] Having hitherto used the formal _voi_, he now uses the intimate -_tu_. - - - - - _Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. - _London & Edinburgh._ - - * * * * * - - TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES - -Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - -A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated -variants. For those words, the variant more frequently used was -retained. In some cases there was no predominant variant. The -hyphenated variant was chosen in those cases. - -The name 'Björnstjerne Björnson' was changed to 'Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson'. - -Obvious punctuation and printing errors, which were not detected during -the printing of the original book, have been corrected. - -The original book did not have a Table of Contents. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Farewell Love! - A Novel - -Author: Matilde Serao - -Translator: Mrs. Henry Harland - -Release Date: April 28, 2017 [EBook #54619] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAREWELL LOVE! *** - - - - -Produced by Andrés V. Galia, Chris Curnow and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img id="coverpage" src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" height="822" alt="book_cover" /> -</div> - - -<div class="p1">FAREWELL LOVE!</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="p2"> British Library<br /> -of<br /> -Continental Fiction.</div> -</div> - -<p class="p3">Guy de Maupassant.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>PIERRE AND JEAN.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Matilde Serao.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>FAREWELL, LOVE.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Jonas Lie.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>NIOBE.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Count Lyon Tolstoi.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Juan Valera.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>DOÑA LUZ.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Don Armando Palacio Valdés.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>THE GRANDEE.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Gemma Ferruggia.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>WOMAN'S FOLLY.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Karl Emil Franzos.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>THE CHIEF JUSTICE.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Matilde Serao.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>FANTASY.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Rudolf Golm.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>THE OLD ADAM AND THE NEW EVE.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Ivan Gontcharoff.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>A COMMON STORY.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">J. P. Jacobsen.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>SIREN VOICES.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Joseph Ignatius Kraszewski.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>THE JEW.</em></p> - -<p class="p3">Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson.</p> -<p class="p4"><em>IN GOD'S WAY.</em></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 370px;"> -<img src="images/frontispice.jpg" width="370" height="450" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">MATILDE SERAO</div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<img src="images/title_page_450.jpg" width="300" height="450" alt="title_page" /> -</div> - -</div> - -<p class="center break-before">MATILDE SERAO</p> -<h1 class="no-break">FAREWELL LOVE!</h1> - -<p class="center"> -A Novel<br /> -BY<br /> -MATILDE SERAO<br /> -<br /> -TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN<br /> -BY<br /> -Mrs. HENRY HARLAND<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -LONDON:<br /> -LONDON BOOK CO.<br /> -1906<br /> -(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)<br /> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center" style="margin-top: 6em;"><em>SPECIAL LIMITED SUBSCRIPTION EDITION.</em></p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center" style="margin-top: 6em;"> -<em>To<br /> -MY DEAD FRIEND<br /> -... et ultra?</em><br /> -<br /> -<em>M. S.</em><br /> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> - - -<p>The most prominent imaginative writer of the latest -generation in Italy is a woman. What little is known of -the private life of Matilde Serao (Mme. Scarfoglio) adds, -as forcibly as what may be divined from the tenour and -material of her books, to the impression that every -student of literary history must have formed of the difficulties -which hem in the intellectual development of an -ambitious girl. Without unusual neglect, unusual misfortune, -it seems impossible for a woman to arrive at -that experience which is essential to the production of -work which shall be able to compete with the work of -the best men. It is known that the elements of hardship -and enforced adventure have not been absent from the -career of the distinguished Italian novelist. Madame -Serao has learned in the fierce school of privation what -she teaches to us with so much beauty and passion in her -stories.</p> - -<p>Matilde Serao was born on the 17th of March 1856, in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span> -the little town of Patras, on the western coast of Greece. -Her father, Francisco Serao, was a Neapolitan political -exile, her mother a Greek princess, the last survivor of -an ancient noble family. I know not under what circumstances -she came to the Italian home of her father, but -it was probably in 1861 or soon afterwards that the unification -of Italy permitted his return. At an early age, -however, she seems to have been left without resources. -She received a rough education at the Scuola Normale -in Naples, and she obtained a small clerkship in the -telegraph office at Rome.</p> - -<p>Literature, however, was the profession she designed -to excel in, and she showed herself a realist at once. -Her earliest story, if I do not mistake, was that minute -picture of the vicissitudes of a post-office which is -named <cite>Telegraphi dello Stato</cite> ("State Telegraphs"). -She worked with extreme energy, she taught herself -shorthand, and in 1878 she quitted the post-office to -become a reporter and a journalist. To give herself -full scope in this new employment, she, as I have -been assured, cut short her curly crop of hair, and -adopted on occasion male costume. She soon gained a -great proficiency in reporting, and advanced to the -writing of short sketches and stories for the newspapers. -The power and originality of these attempts were acknowledged, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span> -and the name of Matilde Serao gradually became -one of those which irresistibly attracted public attention. -The writer of these lines may be permitted to record the -impression which more than ten years ago was made -upon him by reading a Neapolitan sketch, signed by -that then wholly obscure name, in a chance number of -the Roman <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Fanfulla</i>.</p> - -<p>The short stories were first collected in a little volume -in 1879. In 1880 Matilde Serao became suddenly -famous by the publication of the charming story <cite>Fantasia</cite> -("Fantasy"), which has already been presented to an -English public in the present series of translations. It -was followed by a much weaker study of Neapolitan life, -<cite>Cuore Infermo</cite> ("A Heart Diseased"). In 1881 she -published "The Life and Adventures of Riccardo -Joanna," to which she added a continuation in 1885. -It is not possible to enumerate all Madame Serao's -successive publications, but the powerful romance, <cite>La -Conquista di Roma</cite> ("The Conquest of Rome"), 1882, -must not be omitted. This is a very careful and highly -finished study of bureaucratic ambition, admirably characterised. -Since then she has written in rapid succession -several volumes of collected short stories, dealing with -the oddities of Neapolitan life, and a curious novel, -"The Virtue of Cecchina," 1884. Her latest romances, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span> -most of them short, have been <cite>Terno Secco</cite> ("A Dry -Third"), a very charming episode of Italian life, illustrating -the frenzied interest taken in the public lotteries, -1887; <cite>Addio Amore</cite> ("Farewell Love!"), 1887, which -is here, for the first time, published in English; <cite>La -Granda Fiamma</cite>, 1889; and <cite>Sogno di una notte d'estate</cite> -("A Summer Night's Dream"), 1890.</p> - -<p>The method of Matilde Serao's work, its qualities and -its defects, can only be comprehended by those who -realise that she came to literature through journalism. -When she began life, in 1878, it was as a reporter, a -paragraph-writer, a woman of all work on any Roman or -Neapolitan newspaper which would give her employment. -Later on, she founded and carried on a newspaper -of her own, the <cite>Corriere di Roma</cite>. After publishing -this lively sheet for a few years, she passed to Naples, -and became the editor of <cite>Le Corriere di Napoli</cite>, the -paper which enjoys the largest circulation of any journal -in the south of Italy. She has married a journalist, -Eduardo Scarfoglio, and all her life has been spent in -ministering to the appetites of the vast, rough crowd that -buys cheap Italian newspapers. Her novels have been -the employment of her rare and broken leisure; they -bear the stamp of the more constant business of her -life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span></p> - -<p>The naturalism of Matilde Serao deserves to be distinguished -from that of the French contemporaries with -whom she is commonly classed. She has a fiercer passion, -more of the true ardour of the South, than Zola or Maupassant, -but her temperament is distinctly related to that -of Daudet. She is an idealist working in the school -of realism; she climbs, on scaffolding of minute prosaic -observation, to heights which' are emotional and often -lyrical. But her most obvious merit is the acuteness -with which she has learned to collect and arrange in -artistic form the elements of the town life of Southern -Italy. She still retains in her nature something of the -newspaper reporter's quicksilver, but it is sublimated by -the genius of a poet.</p> - -<p class="right"><span style="padding-right: 2em;" > EDMUND GOSSE.</span></p> - - - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<div class="center"> -<table class="toc" border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> - -<tbody> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">CHAPTER</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tcn">PART I</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> I. </td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> II. </td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> III. </td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> IV.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> V.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> VI.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> VII.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tcn"> </td> -<td class="tcn"> PART II</td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> I.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> II.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">III.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn"> IV.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_215">215</a></th> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="chn">V.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<th class="pag"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></th> -</tr> - -</tbody> -</table></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a><br /><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> - - - - - -<h2>PART I</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a><br /><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> - -<h2>I.</h2> - -<p>Motionless under the white coverlet of her bed, -Anna appeared to have been sleeping soundly for -the past two hours.</p> - -<p>Her sister Laura, who occupied a little cot at -the other end of the big room, had that evening -much prolonged her customary reading, which -followed the last gossip of the day between the -girls. But no sooner had she put out her candle -than Anna opened her eyes and fixed them upon -Laura's bed, which glimmered vaguely white in -the distance.</p> - -<p>Anna was wide awake.</p> - -<p>She dared not move, she dared not even sigh; -and all her life was in her gaze, trying to penetrate -the secret of the dusk—trying to see whether really -her sister was asleep. It was a winter's night, and -as the hour advanced the room became colder and -colder; but Anna did not feel it.</p> - -<p>The moment the light had been extinguished a -flame had leapt from her heart to her brain, diffusing -itself through all her members, scalding her -veins, scorching her flesh, quickening the beating -of her pulses. As in the height of fever, she felt -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -herself burning up; her tongue was dry, her head -was hot; and the icy air that entered her lungs -could not quench the fire in her, could not subdue -the tumultuous irruption of her young blood.</p> - -<p>Often, to relieve herself, she had longed to cry -out, to moan; but the fear of waking Laura held -her silent. It was not, however, so much from -the great heat throbbing at her temples that she -suffered, as from her inability to know for certain -whether her sister was asleep.</p> - -<p>Sometimes she thought of moving noisily, so -that her bed should creak; then if Laura was -awake, she would move in hers, and thus Anna -could make sure. But the fear of thereby still -further lengthening this time of waiting, kept her -from letting the thought become an action. She -lay as motionless as if her limbs were bound down -by a thousand chains.</p> - -<p>She had lost all track of time, too; she had -forgotten to count the last strokes of the clock—the -clock that could be heard from the sitting-room -adjoining. It seemed to her that she had -been lying like this for years, that she had been -waiting for years, burning with this maddening -fire for years, that she had spent years trying to -pierce the darkness with her eyes.</p> - -<p>And then the horrible thought crossed her -mind—What if the hour had passed? Perhaps -it had passed without her noticing it; she -who had waited for it so impatiently had let it -escape.</p> - -<p>But no. Presently, deadened by the distance -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> -and the doors closed between, she heard the clock -ring out.</p> - -<p>The hour had come.</p> - -<p>Thereupon, with an infinite caution, born of -infinite fear, slowly, trembling, holding her breath -at every sound, pausing, starting back, going on, -she sat up in bed, and at last slipped out -of it.</p> - -<p>That vague spot of whiteness in the distance, -where her sister lay, still fascinated her; she kept -her head turned in its direction, while with her -hands she felt for her shoes and stockings and -clothes. They were all there, placed conveniently -near; but every little difficulty she had to overcome -in dressing, so as not to make the slightest -noise, represented a world of precautions, of pauses, -and of paralysing fears.</p> - -<p>When at last she had got on her frock of white -serge, which shone out in the darkness, "Perhaps -Laura sees me," she thought.</p> - -<p>But she had made ready a big heavy black -shawl, and in this she now wrapped herself from -head to foot, and the whiteness of her frock was -hidden.</p> - -<p>Then, having accomplished the miracle of dressing -herself, she stood still at her bedside; she -had not dared to take a step as yet, sure that by -doing so she would wake Laura.</p> - -<p>"A little strength—Heaven send me a little -strength," she prayed inwardly.</p> - -<p>Then she set forth stealthily across the room. -In the middle of it, seized by a sudden audacious -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> -impulse, she called her sister's name, in a whisper, -"Laura, Laura," listening intensely.</p> - -<p>No answer. She went on, past the door, -through the sitting-room, the drawing-room, feeling -her way amidst the chairs and tables. She -struck her shoulder against the frame of the -door between the sitting-room and the drawing-room, -and halted for a moment, with a beating -heart.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Madonna mia! Madonna mia!</i>" she murmured -in an agony of terror.</p> - -<p>Then she had to pass before the room of her -governess, Stella Martini; but the poor, good lady -was a sound sleeper, and Anna knew it.</p> - -<p>When she reached the dining-room, it seemed -to her that she must have traversed a hundred -separate chambers, a hundred entire apartments, -an endless chain of chambers and apartments.</p> - -<p>At last she opened the door that gave upon the -terrace, and ran out into the night, the cold, the -blackness. She crossed the terrace to the low -dividing-wall between it and the next.</p> - -<p>"Giustino—Giustino," she called.</p> - -<p>Suddenly the shadow of a man appeared on the -other terrace, very near, very close to the wall of -division.</p> - -<p>A voice answered: "Here I am, Anna."</p> - -<p>But she, taking his hand, drew him towards her, -saying: "Come, come."</p> - -<p>He leapt over the little wall.</p> - -<p>Covered by her black mantle, without speaking, -Anna bent her head and broke into sobs.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What is it? What is wrong?" he asked, trying -to see her face.</p> - -<p>Anna wept without answering.</p> - -<p>"Don't cry, don't cry. Tell me what's -troubling you," he murmured earnestly, with a -caress in his words and in his voice.</p> - -<p>"Nothing, nothing. I was so frightened," she -stammered.</p> - -<p>"Dearest, dearest, dearest!" he whispered.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm a poor creature—a poor thing," said -she, with a desolate gesture.</p> - -<p>"I love you so," said Giustino, simply, in a low -voice.</p> - -<p>"Oh, say that again," she begged, ceasing to -weep.</p> - -<p>"I love you so, Anna."</p> - -<p>"I adore you—my soul, my darling."</p> - -<p>"If you love me, you must be calm."</p> - -<p>"I adore you, my dearest one."</p> - -<p>"Promise me that you won't cry any more, -then."</p> - -<p>"I adore you, I adore you, I adore you!" she -repeated, her voice heavy with emotion.</p> - -<p>He did not speak. It seemed as if he could -find no words fit for responding to such a passion. -A cold gust of wind swept over them.</p> - -<p>"Are you cold?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"No: feel." And she gave him her hand.</p> - -<p>Her little hand, between those of Giustino, was -indeed not cold; it was burning.</p> - -<p>"That is love," said she.</p> - -<p>He lifted the hand gently to his lips, and kissed -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> -it lightly. And thereupon, her eyes glowed in the -darkness, like human stars of passion.</p> - -<p>"My love is consuming me," she went on, as if -speaking to herself. "I can feel nothing else; -neither cold, nor night, nor danger—nothing. I -can only feel <em>you</em>. I want nothing but your love. -I only want to live near you always—till death, and -after death—always with you—always, always."</p> - -<p>"Ah me!" sighed he, under his breath.</p> - -<p>"What did you say?" she cried, eagerly.</p> - -<p>"It was a sigh, dear one; a sigh over our -dream."</p> - -<p>"Don't talk like that; don't say that," she -exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Why shouldn't I say it, Anna? The sweet -dream that we have been dreaming together—any -day we may have to wake from it. They aren't -willing that we should live together."</p> - -<p>"Who—they?"</p> - -<p>"He who can dispose of you as he wishes, -Cesare Dias."</p> - -<p>"Have you seen him?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; to-day."</p> - -<p>"And he won't consent?"</p> - -<p>"He won't consent."</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>"Because you have money, and I have none. -Because you are noble, and I'm not."</p> - -<p>"But I adore you, Giustino."</p> - -<p>"That matters little to your guardian."</p> - -<p>"He's a bad man."</p> - -<p>"He's a man," said Giustino, shortly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But it's an act of cruelty that he's committing," -she cried, lifting her hands towards heaven.</p> - -<p>Giustino did not speak.</p> - -<p>"What did you answer? What did you -plead? Didn't you tell him again that you -love me, that I adore you, that I shall die if we -are separated? Didn't you describe our despair -to him?"</p> - -<p>"It was useless," replied Giustino, sadly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! You didn't tell him of -our love, of our happiness? You didn't implore -him, weeping? You didn't try to move his hard -old heart? But what sort of man are you; what -sort of soul have you, that you let them sentence -us to death like this? O Lord! O Lord!—what -man have I been loving?"</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna!" he said, softly.</p> - -<p>"Why didn't you defy him? Why didn't you -rebel? You're young; you're brave. How could -Cesare Dias, almost an old man, with ice in his -veins, how could he frighten you?"</p> - -<p>"Because Cesare Dias was right, Anna," he -answered quietly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, horror! Horrible sacrilege of love!" cried -Anna, starting back.</p> - -<p>In her despair she had unconsciously allowed -her shawl to drop from her shoulders; it had -fallen to the ground, at her feet. And now she -stood up before him like a white, desolate phantom, -impelled by sorrow to wander the earth on a -quest that can never have an end.</p> - -<p>But he had a desperate courage, though it -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -forced him to break with the only woman he had -ever loved.</p> - -<p>"Cesare Dias was right, my dearest Anna. I -couldn't answer him. I'm a poor young fellow, -without a farthing."</p> - -<p>"Love is stronger than money."</p> - -<p>"I am a commoner, I have no title to give -you."</p> - -<p>"Love is stronger than a title."</p> - -<p>"Everything is against our union, Anna."</p> - -<p>"Love is stronger than everything; stronger -even than death."</p> - -<p>After this there befell a silence. But he felt -that he must go to the bottom of the subject. -He saw his duty, and overcame his pain.</p> - -<p>"Think a little, Anna. Our souls were made -for each other; but our persons are placed in -such different circumstances, separated by so -many things, such great distances, that not even -a miracle could unite them. You accuse me of -being a traitor to our love, which is our strength; -but is it unworthy of us to conquer ourselves in -such a pass? Anna, Anna, it is I who lose -everything; and yet I advise you to forget this -youthful fancy. You are young; you are beautiful; -you are rich; you are noble, and you love -me; yet it is my duty to say to you, forget me—forget -me. Consider how great the sacrifice is, -and see if it is not our duty, as two good people, -to make it courageously. Anna, you will be -loved again, better still, by a better man. You -deserve the purest and the noblest love. You -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -won't be unhappy long. Life is still sweet for -you. You weep, yes; you suffer; because you -love me, because you are a dear, loving woman. -But afterwards, afterwards you will find your path -broad and flowery. It is I who will have nothing -left; the light of my life will go out, the fire in -my heart. But what does it matter? You will -forget me, Anna."</p> - -<p>Anna, motionless, listened to him, uttering no -word.</p> - -<p>"Speak," he said, anxiously.</p> - -<p>"I can't forget you," she answered.</p> - -<p>"Try—make the effort. Let us try not to see -each other."</p> - -<p>"No, no; it's useless," she said, her voice -dying on her lips.</p> - -<p>"What do you wish us to do?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I don't know."</p> - -<p>A great impulse of pity, greater than his own -sorrow, assailed him. He took her hands; they -were cold now.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter with you? Are you ill?"</p> - -<p>She did not answer. She leant her head on -his shoulder, and he caressed her rich, brown -hair.</p> - -<p>"Anna, what is it?" he whispered, thrilled by -a wild emotion.</p> - -<p>"You don't love me."</p> - -<p>"How can you doubt it?"</p> - -<p>"If you loved me," she began, sobbing, "you -would not propose our separation. If you loved -me you would not think such a separation possible. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -If you loved me it would be like death to -you to forget and be forgotten. Giustino, you -don't love me."</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna!"</p> - -<p>"Judge by me," she went on, softly. "I'm a -poor, weak woman; yet I resist, I struggle. And we -would conquer, we would conquer, if you loved me."</p> - -<p>"Anna!"</p> - -<p>"Ah, don't call my name; don't speak my -name. All this tenderness—what's the use of it? -It is good; it is wise; it is comforting. But it is -only tenderness; it isn't love. You can think, -reflect, determine. That isn't love. You speak -of duty, of being worthy—worthy of her who -adores you, who sees nothing but you in the -whole wide world. I know nothing of all that. -I love you. I know nothing. And only now I -realise that your love isn't love. You are silent. -I don't understand you. You can't understand -me. Good-bye, love!"</p> - -<p>She turned away from him, to move off. But -he detained her.</p> - -<p>"What do you want to do?" he whispered.</p> - -<p>"If I can't live with you, I must die," she said, -quietly, with her eyes closed, as if she were thus -awaiting death.</p> - -<p>"Don't speak of dying, Anna. Don't make -my regret worse than it is. It's I who have -spoiled your life."</p> - -<p>"It doesn't matter."</p> - -<p>"It's I who have put bitterness into your sweet -youth."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It doesn't matter."</p> - -<p>"It's I who have stirred you up to rebel against -Cesare Dias, against your sister Laura, against the -wish of your parents and all your friends."</p> - -<p>"It doesn't matter."</p> - -<p>"It is I who have called you from your sleep, -who have exposed you to a thousand dangers. -Think, if you were discovered here you would be -lost."</p> - -<p>"It doesn't matter. Take me away."</p> - -<p>And Giustino, in spite of the darkness, could see -her fond eyes glowing.</p> - -<p>"If you would only take me away," she sighed.</p> - -<p>"But where?"</p> - -<p>"Anywhere—to any country. You will be my -country."</p> - -<p>"Elope? A noble young girl—elope like an -adventuress?"</p> - -<p>"Love will secure my pardon."</p> - -<p>"I will pardon you; no others will."</p> - -<p>"You will be my family, my all. Take me -away."</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna, where should we find refuge? -Without means, without friends, having committed -a great fault, our life would be most -unhappy."</p> - -<p>"No, no, no! Take me away. We'll have a -little time of poverty, after which I shall get possession -of my fortune. Take me away."</p> - -<p>"And I shall be accused of having made a good -speculation. No, no, Anna, it's impossible. I -couldn't bear such a shame."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p> - -<p>She started away from him, pushing him back -with a movement of horror.</p> - -<p>"What?" she cried. "What? You would be -ashamed? It's your shame that preoccupies you? -And mine? Honoured, esteemed, loved, I care -nothing for this honour, this love, and am willing -to lose all, the respect of people, the affection of -my relations—and you think of yourself! I could -have chosen any one of a multitude of young men -of my own rank, my own set, and I have chosen -you because you were good and honest and clever. -And you are ashamed of what bad people and -stupid people may say of you! I—I brave everything. -I lie, I deceive. I leave my bed at the -dead of night, steal out during my sister's sleep—out -of my room, out of my house, like a guilty -servant, so that they might call me the lowest of -the low. I do all this to come to you; and you -are thinking of speculations, of what the world will -say about you. Oh, how strong you are, you men! -How well you know your way; how straight you -march, never listening to the voices that call to -you, never feeling the hands that try to stop you—nothing, -nothing, nothing! You are men, and have -your honour to look after, your dignity to preserve, -your delicate reputation to safeguard. You are -right, you are reasonable. And so we are fools; -we are mad, who step out of the path of honour -and dignity for the love of you—we poor silly -creatures of our hearts!"</p> - -<p>Giustino had not attempted to protest against -this outburst of violent language; but every word -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -of it, hot with wrath, vibrant with sorrowful -anger, stirred him to the quick, held him silenced, -frightened, shaken by her voice, by the tumult of -her passion. Now the fire which he had rashly -kindled burnt up the whole beautiful, simple, -stable edifice of his planning, and all he could -see left of it was a smoking ruin. He loved her—she -loved him; and though he knew it was wild -and unreasonable. "Forgive me," he said; "let -us go away."</p> - -<p>She put her hand upon his head, and he heard -her murmur, under her voice, "O God!"</p> - -<p>They both felt that their life was decided, that -they had played the grand stake of their existence.</p> - -<p>There was a long pause; she was the first to -break it.</p> - -<p>"Listen, Giustino. Before we fly let me make -one last attempt. You have spoken to Cesare -Dias; you have told him that you love me, that I -adore you; but he didn't believe you——"</p> - -<p>"It is true. He smiled incredulously."</p> - -<p>"He is a man who has seen a great deal of the -world, who has been loved, who has loved; but of all -that nothing is left to him. He is cold and solitary. -He never speaks of his scepticism, but he believes -in nothing. He's a miserable, arid creature. I know -that he despises me, thinking me silly and enthusiastic. -I pity him as I pity every one who has -no love in his heart. And yet—I will speak to -Cesare Dias. The truth will well up from me -with such impetus that he cannot refuse to believe -me. I'll tell him everything. In spite of his forty -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -years, in spite of the corruption of his mind, in -spite of all his scorn, all his irony, true love will -find convincing words. He'll give his consent."</p> - -<p>"Can't you first persuade your sister? There -we'd have an affectionate ally," said Giustino, -tentatively.</p> - -<p>"My sister is worse than Cesare Dias," she -answered, with a slight tremor of the voice; "I -should never dare to depend on her."</p> - -<p>"You are afraid of her?"</p> - -<p>"Pray don't speak of her, don't speak of her. -It's a subject which pains me."</p> - -<p>"And yet——"</p> - -<p>"No, no. Laura knows nothing; she must -know nothing; it would be dreadful if she knew. -I'd a thousand times rather speak to him. He -will remember his past; Laura has no past—she -has nothing—she's a dead soul. I will speak with -him; he will believe me."</p> - -<p>"And if he shouldn't believe you?"</p> - -<p>"He <em>will</em> believe me."</p> - -<p>"But, Anna, Anna, if he shouldn't?"</p> - -<p>"Then—we will elope. But I ought to make -this last attempt. Heaven will give me strength. -Afterwards—I will write to you, I will tell you -everything. I daren't come here any more. It's -too dangerous. If any one should see me it -would be the ruin of all our hopes. I'll write to -you. You'll arrange your own affairs in the -meantime—as if you were at the point of death, -as if you were going to leave this country never to -return. You must be ready at any instant."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'll be ready."</p> - -<p>"Surely?"</p> - -<p>"Surely."</p> - -<p>"Without a regret?"</p> - -<p>"Without a regret." But his voice died on -his lips.</p> - -<p>"Thank you; you love me. We shall be so -happy! You will see. Happier than any one in -the world!"</p> - -<p>"So happy!" murmured Giustino, faithful but -sad.</p> - -<p>"And may Heaven help us," she concluded, -fervently, putting out her hand to leave him.</p> - -<p>He took her hand, and his pressure of it was a -silent vow; but it was the vow of a friend, of a -brother, simple and austere.</p> - -<p>She moved slowly away, as if tired. He -remained where he was, waiting a little before -returning to his own terrace. Not until some ten -minutes had passed, during which he heard no -sound, no movement, could he feel satisfied that -Anna had safely reached her room.</p> - -<p>Once at home, he found himself used up, exhausted, -without ideas, without emotions. And -speedily he fell asleep.</p> - -<p>She also was exhausted by the great moral -crisis through which she had passed. An immense -burden seemed to bow her down, to make heavy -her footsteps, as she groped her way through the -silent house.</p> - -<p>When she reached the sitting-room she stopped -with sudden terror. A light was burning in the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -bedroom. Laura would be awake, would have -remarked her absence, would be waiting for her.</p> - -<p>She stood still a long while. She could hear a -sound as of the pages of a book being turned. -Laura was reading.</p> - -<p>At last she pushed open the door, and crossed -the threshold.</p> - -<p>Laura looked at her, smiled haughtily, and did -not speak.</p> - -<p>Anna fell on her knees before her, crying, -"Forgive me. For pity's sake, Laura, forgive me. -Laura, Laura, Laura!"</p> - -<p>But the child remained silent, white and cold -and virginal, never ceasing to smile scornfully.</p> - -<p>Anna lay on the floor, weeping. And the -winter dawn found her there, weeping, weeping; -while her sister slept peacefully.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>II.</h2> - -<p>The letter ran thus:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">Dearest Love</span>,—I have had my interview -with Cesare Dias. What a man! His mere -presence seemed to freeze me; it was enough if -he looked at me, with his big clear blue eyes, for -speech to fail me. There is something in his -silence which frightens me; and when he speaks, -his sharp voice quells me by its tone as well as -by the hard things he says.</p> - -<p>"And yet this morning when he came for his -usual visit, I was bold enough to speak to him of -my marriage. I spoke simply, briefly, without -trembling, though I could see that the courtesy -with which he listened was ironical. Laura was -present, taciturn and absent-minded as usual. -She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, -and then, getting up, left the room with that -light footstep of hers which scarcely seems to -touch the earth.</p> - -<p>"Cesare Dias smiled without looking at me, -and his smile disconcerted me horribly, putting all -my thoughts into confusion. But I felt that I ought - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> - -to make the attempt—I ought. I had promised -it to you, my darling, and to myself. My life -had become insupportable; the more so because -of my sister, who knew my secret, who tortured -me with her contempt—the contempt of a person -who has never loved for one who does—who -might at any moment betray me, and tell the story -of that wintry night.</p> - -<p>"Cesare Dias smiled, and didn't seem to care -in the least to hear what I had to say. However, -in spite of my emotion, in spite of the fact -that I was talking to a man who cared nothing -for me and for whom I cared nothing, in spite -of the gulf that divides a character like mine -from that of Cesare Dias, I had the courage to -tell him that I adored you, that I wished to live -and die with you, that my fortune would suffice -for our needs, that I would never marry any one -but you; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, I -besought him, as my guardian, my nearest relation, -my wisest friend, to give his consent to our -marriage.</p> - -<p>"He had listened, with his eyes cast down, -giving no sign of interest. And now at the end -he simply uttered a dry little 'No.'</p> - -<p>"And then took place a dreadful scene. I -implored, I wept, I rebelled, I declared that my -heart was free, that my person was free; and -always I found that I was addressing a man of -stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an utterly -false point of view, a conventional standard based -upon the opinion of the world, and a total lack of - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> - -good feeling. Cesare Dias denied that I loved -you, denied that you loved me, denied that any -such thing as real love could exist—real love for -which people live and die! He denied that love -was a thing not to be forgotten; denied that love -is the only thing that makes life worth while. -His one word was No—no, no, no, from the -beginning to the end of our talk. He made the -most specious, extravagant, and cynical arguments -to convince me that I was deceiving myself, that -we were deceiving ourselves, and that it was his -duty to oppose himself to our folly. Oh, how I -wept! How I abased my spirit before that man, -who reasoned in this cold strain! and how it hurts -me now to think of the way I humiliated myself! -I remember that while my love for you, dearest, -was breaking out in wild utterance, I saw that he -was looking admiringly at me, as in a theatre he -might admire an actor who was cleverly feigning -passion. He did not believe me; and two or -three times my anger rose to such a point that I -stooped to threaten him; I threatened to make a -public scandal.</p> - -<p>"'The scandal will fall on the person who -makes it,' he said severely, getting up, to cut short -the conversation.</p> - -<p>"He went away. In the drawing-room I heard -him talking quietly with Laura, as if nothing had -happened, as if he hadn't left me broken-hearted, -as if he didn't know that I was on my knees, in -despair, calling upon the names of the Madonna -and the Saints for help. But that man has no - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> - -soul; and I am surrounded by people who think -me a mad enthusiast.</p> - -<p>"My love, my darling love, my constant thought—it -is then decided: we must fly. We must fly. -Here, like this, I should die. Anything will be -better than this house; it is a prison. Anything -is better than the galleys.</p> - -<p>"I know that what I propose is very grave. -According to the common judgment of mankind -a young girl who elopes is everlastingly dishonoured. -In spite of the sanctity of marriage, -suspicion never leaves her. I know that I am -throwing away a great deal for a dream of love. -But that is my strange and cruel destiny—the -destiny which has given me a fortune and taken -away my father; given me a heart eager for -affection and cut me off from all affection; given -me the dearest and at the same time the least -loving sister!</p> - -<p>"For whom ought I to sacrifice myself, since -those who loved me are dead, and those who live -with me do not love me? I need love; I have -found it; I will attach myself to it; I will not let -it go. Who will weep for me here? No one. -Whose hands will be stretched out to call me -back? No one's. What memories will I carry -away with me? None. I am lonely and misunderstood; -I am flying from ice and snow to the -warm sunlight of love. You are the sun, you are -my love. Don't think ill of me. I am not like -other girls, girls who have a home, a family, a nest. -I am a poor pilgrim, seeking a home, a family, a - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> - -nest. I will be your wife, your sweetheart, your -servant; I love you. A life passed in the holy -atmosphere of your love will be an absolution for -this fault that I am committing. I know, the -world will not forgive me. But I despise people -who can't understand one's sacrificing everything -for love. And those who do not understand it -will pity me. I shall care for nothing but your -love; you will forgive me because you love me.</p> - -<p>"So, it is decided. On the third day after you -receive this letter—that is, on Friday—leave your -house as if you were going for a walk, without -luggage, and take a cab to the railway station. -Take the train that leaves Naples for Salerno at -one o'clock, and arrives at Pompeii at two. I -shan't be at the station at Pompeii—that might -arouse suspicions; but I shall be in the streets of -the dead city, looking at the ruins. Find me -there—come as swiftly as you can—to the -Street of Tombs, leading to the Villa of Diomedes, -near to the grave of Nevoleia Tyche, 'a sweet -Pompeiian child,' according to her epitaph. We -will meet there, and then we will leave for Metaponto -or Brindisi, and sail for the East. I have -money. You know, Cesare Dias, to save himself -trouble, has allowed me to receive my entire -income for the past two years. Afterwards—when -this money is spent—well, we will work for -our living until I come of age.</p> - -<p>"You understand? You needn't worry about -me. I shall get out of the house, go to the station, -and arrive at Pompeii without being surprised. I - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> - - -have a bold and simple plan, which I can't -explain to you. It would not do for us to meet -here in town, the risk would be too great. But -leaving for Pompeii by separate trains, how can -any one suspect us? Does my clearness of -mind astonish you? My calmness, my precision? -For twenty days I have been thinking of this -matter; I have lain awake at night studying it -in detail.</p> - -<p>"Remember, remember: Friday, at noon, leave -your house. At one, leave the station. At half-past -two come to me at the grave of Nevoleia -Tyche. Don't forget, for mercy's sake. If you -shouldn't arrive at the right time, what would -become of me, alone, at Pompeii, in anguish, -devoured by anxiety?</p> - -<p>"My sweetest love, this is the last letter you -will receive from me. Why, as I write these -words, does a feeling of sorrow come upon me, -making me bow my head? The word <em>last</em> is -always sad, whenever it is spoken. Will you -always love me, even though far from your country, -even though poor, even though unhappy? -You won't accuse me of having wronged you? -You will protect me and sustain me with your -love? You will be kind, honest, loyal. You will -be all that I care for in the world.</p> - -<p>"This is my last letter, it is true, but soon -now our wondrous future will begin—our life -together. Remember, remember where I shall -wait for you.</p> - -<p class="right">"<span class="smcap" style="padding-right: 2em;">Anna."</span><br /> -</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> - -<p>Alone in his little house, Giustino Morelli read -Anna's letter twice through, slowly, slowly. Then -his head fell upon his breast. He felt that he was -lost, ruined; that Anna was lost and ruined.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>At that early morning hour the Church of -Santa Chiara, white with stucco, rich with gold -ornamentation, with softly carved marbles and old -pictures, was almost empty. A few pious old -women moved vaguely here and there, wrapped -in black shawls; a few knelt praying before the -altar. Anna Acquaviva and her governess, Stella -Martini, were seated in the middle of the church, -with their eyes bent on their prayer-books. Stella -Martini had a worn, sunken face, that must have -once been delicately pretty, with that sort of -prettiness which fades before thirty. Anna wore -a dark serge frock, with a jacket in the English -fashion; and her black hair was held in place by -a comb of yellow tortoise-shell. The warm -pallor of her face was broken by no trace of -colour. Every now and then she bit her lips -nervously. She had held her prayer-book open -for a long while without turning a page. But -Stella Martini had not noticed this; she was -praying fervently.</p> - -<p>Presently the young girl rose.</p> - -<p>"I am going to confession," she said, standing -still, holding on to the back of her chair.</p> - -<p>The governess did not seek to detain her. -With a light step she crossed the church and -entered a confessional.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p> - -<p>There the good priest, with the round, childlike -face and the crown of snow-white hair, asked his -usual questions quietly, not surprised by the -tremor in the voice that answered him. He knew -the character of his penitent.</p> - -<p>But Anna answered incoherently; often not -understanding the sense of the simple words the -priest addressed to her. Sometimes she did not -answer at all, but only sighed behind the grating.</p> - -<p>At last her confessor asked with some anxiety: -"What is it that troubles you?"</p> - -<p>"Father, I am in great danger," she said in a -low voice.</p> - -<p>But when he sought to learn what her danger -was she would give him no details. He begged -her to speak frankly, to tell him everything; she -only murmured:</p> - -<p>"Father, I am threatened with disgrace."</p> - -<p>Then he became severe, reminding her that it -was a great sin to come thus and trifle with a -sacrament of the church, to come to the confessional -and refuse to confess. He could not -give her absolution.</p> - -<p>"I will come another time," she said rising.</p> - -<p>But now, instead of returning to her governess, -who was still praying with her eyes cast down, Anna -stole swiftly out of the church into the street, where -she hailed a cab, and bade the cabman drive to the -railway station. She drew down the blinds of the -carriage windows, and there in the darkness she -could scarcely suppress a cry of mingled joy and -pain to find herself at last alone and free.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> - -<p>The cab rolled on and on; it was like the -movement of a dream. The only thing she could -think of was this beautiful and terrible idea, that -she, Anna Acquaviva, had abandoned for ever her -home and her family, carrying away only so much -of her fortune as the purse in her pocket could -hold, to throw herself into the arms of Giustino -Morelli. No feeling of fear held her back. Her -entire past life was ended, she could never take it -up again; it was over, it was over.</p> - -<p>In that sort of somnambulism which accompanies -a decisive action, she was as exact and -rigid in everything she had to do as an automaton. -At the station she paid her cabman, and -mechanically asked for a ticket to Pompeii at the -booking-office.</p> - -<p>"Single or return?" inquired the clerk.</p> - -<p>"Single," she answered.</p> - -<p>As almost every one who went to Pompeii took -a return ticket, the clerk thought he had to do -with an Englishwoman or an impassioned antiquary.</p> - -<p>She put the ticket into the opening of her -glove, and went into the first-class waiting-room. -She looked about her quite indifferently, as if it -was impossible that Cesare Dias or indeed any -one of her acquaintance should see her there. -She was conscious of nothing save a great need to -go on, to go on; nothing else. It was the first -time in her life that she had been out alone like -this, yet she felt no surprise. It seemed to her -that she had been travelling alone for years; that -Cesare Dias, Laura Acquaviva, and Stella Martini -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> -were pale shadows of an infinitely distant past, a -past anterior to her present existence; that they -were people she had known in another world. -She kept repeating to herself, like a child trying -to remember a word,</p> - -<p>"Pompeii, Pompeii, Pompeii."</p> - -<p>But when she was climbing into the first-class -compartment of the train, it seemed suddenly as -if a force held her back, as if a mysterious hand -forbade her going on. She trembled, and had to -make a violent effort to enter the carriage, as if to -brush aside an invisible obstacle. And, from that -moment, a voice within her seemed to be murmuring -confusedly to her conscience, warning her of -the great moral crisis she was approaching; while -before her eyes the blue Neapolitan coast was -passing rapidly, where the wintry cold had given -way to a warm scirocco. On, on, the morning -train hurried her, over the land, by the sea, between -the white houses of Portici, the pink houses -of Torre del Greco, the houses, pink, white, and -yellow, of Torre Annunziata—on, on. And Anna, -motionless in her corner, gazing out of the window, -beheld a vague, delicious vision of flowers and -stars and kisses and caresses; and an icy terror, -a sense of imminent peril, lay upon her heart. -Oh, yes! In a brilliant vision she saw a future -of love, of passion and tenderness, a fire-hued -vision of all that soul and body could desire; yet -constantly that still, small voice kept whispering -to her conscience: "Don't go, don't go. If you -go, you are lost."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> - -<p>And this presently became so unbearable that, -when the train entered the brown, burnt-up -country at the foot of Vesuvius, the country that -surrounds the great ruin of Pompeii, despair was -making her twist the handle of her purse violently -with her fingers. The green vines and the laughing -villages had disappeared from the landscape; -the blue sea, with its dancing white waves, had -disappeared; she was crossing a wide, desolate -plain; and the volcano, with its eternal wreath -of smoke, rose before her. And also had disappeared -for ever the phantasms of her happiness! -Anna was travelling alone, through a sterile land, -where fire had passed, devastating all life, killing -the flowers, destroying the people, their homes, -their pleasures, their loves. And the voice within -her cried: "This is a symbol of Passion, which -destroys all things, and then dies itself."</p> - -<p>And then she thought that she had chosen -ominously in coming to Pompeii—a city of love, -destroyed by fire, an everlasting reminder to those -who saw it of the tragedy of life—Pompeii, with -its hard heart of lava!</p> - -<p>She descended from the carriage when the -train stopped, and followed a family of Germans -and two English clergymen out of the tiny -station.</p> - -<p>She went on, looking neither to right nor left, -up the narrow, dusty lane that leads from the -railway to the inn at the city's gate. Neither the -Germans nor the clergymen noticed her; the -solitary young woman, with the warm, pale face, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> -and the great brown-black eyes that gazed -straight forward, without interest in what they -saw, the eyes of a soul consumed by an emotion. -When they had all entered the house, she ensconced -herself in a corner near a window, and -looked out upon the path she had followed, as if -waiting for somebody, or as if wishing to turn -back.</p> - -<p>And Anna was praying for the safe coming of -Giustino. If she could but see him, if she could -but hear his voice, all her doubts, all her pains, -would fly away.</p> - -<p>"I adore him! I adore him!" she thought, and -tried thus to find strength with which to combat -her conscience. Her heart was filled with a single -wish—to see Giustino; he would give her strength; -he was the reason for her life—he and love. She -looked at her little child's watch, the only jewel -she had brought away; she had a long time still -to wait before two o'clock.</p> - -<p>An old guide approached her, and offered to -show her the ruins. She followed him mechanically. -They traversed the Street of Hope, the -Street of Fortune, where there are the deep marks -of carriage wheels in the stone pavement; they -entered houses and shops and squares; she -looked at everything with vacant eyes. Twice -the guide said: "Now let us visit the Street of -Tombs and the Villa of Diomedes." Twice she -had answered: "Later on; by-and-by."</p> - -<p>Two or three times she had sat down on a -stone to rest; and then her poor old guide had -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -sat down also, at a distance, and let his head fall -forward on his breast, and dozed. She was -strangely fatigued; she had exhausted her forces -in making the journey hither; the tumult of -emotion she had gone through had prostrated -her. Now she felt utterly alone and abandoned—a -poor, unfortunate creature bearing through -this dead city a heavy burden of solitude and -weariness: and when, after a long rest, she got -up to go on again, a great sigh broke from her -lips.</p> - -<p>But somehow she must pass the time, and so -she went on. She climbed to the top of the -Amphitheatre, seeking to devour the minutes that -separated her from two o'clock.</p> - -<p>Presently the old man said, for the third time: -"Now let us visit the Street of Tombs and the -Villa of Diomedes."</p> - -<p>"Let us go," she responded.</p> - -<p>The hours had passed at last; only one more -remained. With her watch in her hand, as the -guide pointed out to her the magnificence of the -Villa of Diomedes, she was saying to herself, -"Now Giustino is leaving Naples."</p> - -<p>Impatient, no longer able to endure the voice -or presence of the old man, no longer able to -hide her own perturbation, she paid and dismissed -him. He hesitated, reluctant to leave her, telling -her that it was forbidden to make sketches, and, -above all, to carry anything away; but he said it -timidly, humbly, knowing very well that it was -needless to fear any such infractions from this -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -pale girl with the dreamy eyes. And he moved -off, slowly, slowly, turning back every now and -then to see what she was doing. She sat down -on a stone in front of the tomb of the "sweet -freed-woman," Nevoleia Tyche, and waited there, -her hands in her lap, her head bent; nor did she -look up when a party of English passed her, -accompanied by a guide. This last hour seemed -interminable to her; it seemed covered by a great -shadow, in which all things were obscured. The -name of Giustino, constantly repeated, was like a -single ray of light. She neither heard nor saw -what was going on round about her; her consciousness -of the external world was put out.</p> - -<p>Suddenly a shadow fell between her and the -grey tomb of the freed-woman. She looked -up, and saw Giustino standing before her, gazing -down on her with an infinite despairing -tenderness.</p> - -<p>Anna, unable to speak, gave him her hand, -and rose. And a smile of happiness, like a great -light, shone from her eyes, and a warm colour -mantled her cheeks. Giustino had never seen -her so beautiful. In an ecstasy of joy, feeling all -her doubts die within her, feeling all the glory of -her love spring to full life again, Anna could not -understand why there was an expression of sorrow -on Giustino's face.</p> - -<p>"Do you love me—a great deal?"</p> - -<p>"A great deal."</p> - -<p>"You will always care for me?"</p> - -<p>"Always."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was like a sad, soft echo, but the girl did not -notice that; a veil of passion dimmed her perceptions. -They walked on together, she close to him, -so happy that her feet scarcely touched the earth, -enjoying this minute of intense love with all the -force of feeling that she possessed, with all the -self-surrender of which human nature is capable. -They walked on through the streets of Pompeii, -without seeing, without looking. Only again and -again she said softly: "Tell me that you love me—tell -me that you love me!"</p> - -<p>Two or three times he had answered simply, -"Yes," then he was silent.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, Anna, not hearing his answer, stood -still, and taking his arms in her hands, looked deep -into his honest eyes, and asked, "What is the -matter?"</p> - -<p>Her voice trembled. He lowered his eyes.</p> - -<p>"Nothing," he said.</p> - -<p>"Why are you so sad?"</p> - -<p>"I'm not sad," he answered with an effort.</p> - -<p>"You're telling the truth?"</p> - -<p>"I'm telling the truth."</p> - -<p>"Swear that you love me."</p> - -<p>"Do you need me to swear it?" he exclaimed -with such sincerity and such pain that she was convinced, -perceiving the sincerity, but not the pain.</p> - -<p>But she was still troubled; there was still a -bitterness in her joy. They were near the Street -of the Sea, which leads out of the dead city.</p> - -<p>"Let us go away, let us go away," she said -impatiently.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> - -<p>"The train for Metaponto doesn't leave till six -o'clock; we've plenty of time."</p> - -<p>"Let us go away! I don't want to stay here -any longer. I beg of you, let us go."</p> - -<p>He obeyed her passively and was silent. They -entered the inn on their way to the station, at the -same time as the two English clergymen. Anna -was frightened; she didn't care to talk of love to -Giustino before such witnesses, but she looked at -him with fond, supplicating eyes. The two clergymen -seated themselves at the table which is always -laid in the chief room of the inn, and while they -ate their dinner one of them read his Bible, the -other his Baedeker. The two lovers were near the -window, looking through the glass at the road that -leads to the station; and Anna was holding on to -Giustino's arm, and he, confused, nervous, asked -her if she would not like to dine, taking refuge -from his embarrassment in the commonplace. -"No; she did not wish to dine, she wasn't hungry. -Afterwards, by-and-by." And her voice failed her -as she looked at the two ecclesiastics.</p> - -<p>"I wish——" she began, whispering into Giustino's -ear.</p> - -<p>"What do you wish?"</p> - -<p>"Take me away somewhere else, where I can -say something to you."</p> - -<p>He hesitated; she blushed; then he left the -room to speak to the landlord; returning presently, -"Come," he said.</p> - -<p>"Where are we going?"</p> - -<p>"Upstairs."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Upstairs?"</p> - -<p>"You will see."</p> - -<p>They went upstairs to the first floor, where the -waiter who conducted them opened the door of an -apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room—a -big bedroom, a tiny sitting-room—both -having balconies that looked off over the country, -and there the waiter left them alone.</p> - -<p>Each of them was pale, silent, confused.</p> - -<p>She looked round. The sitting-room was vulgarly -furnished with a green sofa, two green easy-chairs, -a centre-table covered with a nut-coloured -jute tablecloth, and a marble console. The thought -of the many strangers who had inhabited it inspired -her with a sort of shame. Then she glanced into -the bedroom. It was very large, with two beds at -the farther end, a dressing-table, a sofa, and a wardrobe. -These pieces of furniture seemed lost in the -vast bare-looking chamber. It gave her a shudder -merely to look into it; and yet again she blushed.</p> - -<p>She raised her eyes to Giustino's, and she noticed -anew that he was gazing at her with an expression -of great sadness.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter?" she asked.</p> - -<p>He did not answer. He sat down and buried -his face in his hands.</p> - -<p>"Tell me what it is," she insisted, trembling -with anger and anguish.</p> - -<p>He remained silent. Perhaps he was weeping -behind his hands.</p> - -<p>"If you don't tell me what it is, I'll go back to -Naples," she said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p> - -<p>He did not speak.</p> - -<p>"You despise me because I have left my home."</p> - -<p>"No, Anna," he murmured.</p> - -<p>"You think I'm dreadful—you think of me as -an abandoned creature."</p> - -<p>"No, dear one—no."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps—you—love another woman."</p> - -<p>"You can't think that."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps—you have—another tie—without -love."</p> - -<p>"None; I am bound to no one."</p> - -<p>"You have promised yourself to no one?"</p> - -<p>"To no one."</p> - -<p>"Then why are you so sad? Why do you weep? -Why do you tremble? It is I who ought to weep -and tremble, and yet I don't weep unless to see -you weep. Your weeping breaks my heart, makes -me desperate."</p> - -<p>"Anna, listen to me. By the memory of your -mother I implore you to listen, to understand. I -am miserable because of you, on your account—in -thinking of what I have allowed you to do, of -how you are throwing away your future, of the -unhappiness that awaits you; without a home, -without a name, persecuted by your family——"</p> - -<p>"If you loved me, you wouldn't think these -things; you wouldn't say them."</p> - -<p>"I have always said them, Anna; I have always -repeated them. I have ruined you. For three days -I have been in an agony of remorse; it is the -same to-day. Though you are the light of my -life, I must say it to you. To-day I can't forgive -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -myself; to-morrow you will be unable to forgive -me. Oh, my love! I am a gentleman, I am a -Christian; and yet I have been weak enough to -allow you and me to commit this sin, this fault."</p> - -<p>Speaking thus, with an infinite earnestness, all -the honesty of his noble soul showed itself, a soul -bowed down by remorse. She looked at him -and listened to him with stupefaction, amazed at -this spectacle of a rectitude, of a virtue that was -greater than love, for she believed only in love.</p> - -<p>"I don't understand you," she said.</p> - -<p>"And yet you must—you must. If you don't -see the reasons for my conduct you will despise -me, you will hate me. You must try, with all -your heart, with all your mind, to understand. -You mustn't let yourself be carried away by your -love. You must be calm, you must be cool."</p> - -<p>"I can't."</p> - -<p>"O God!" he said in despair.</p> - -<p>Again he was silent. She mechanically, to -overcome the trembling of her hands, pulled at -the fringe of the tablecloth. She tried to reflect, -to understand. And always, always, she had the -same feeling, the same idea, and she could not -help trying to express it in words: "You don't -love me enough." She looked into his eyes as -she spoke, concentrating her whole soul in her -voice and in her gaze.</p> - -<p>"It is true, I don't love you enough," he -answered.</p> - -<p>She made no sound: she was cut to the heart. -The little sitting-room, the inn, Pompeii, the whole -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -world appeared to go whirling round her dizzily. -She had a feeling as if her temples would burst -open, and pressed her hands to them instinctively.</p> - -<p>"Ah, then," she said, after a long pause, in a -broken voice—"ah, then, you have deceived me?"</p> - -<p>"I have deceived you," he murmured humbly.</p> - -<p>"You haven't loved me?"</p> - -<p>"Not enough to forget everything else. I have -already said so."</p> - -<p>"I understand. What was the use of lying?"</p> - -<p>"Because you were beautiful and good, and you -loved me, and I didn't see this danger. I didn't -dream that you would wish to give up everything -in this way, that I should be unable to prevent -you——"</p> - -<p>"Words, words. The essential is, you don't -love me."</p> - -<p>"As you wish to be loved, as you deserve to be -loved—no."</p> - -<p>"That is, without blind passion?"</p> - -<p>"Without blind passion."</p> - -<p>"That is, without fire, without enthusiasm?"</p> - -<p>"Without fire, without enthusiasm."</p> - -<p>"Then, with what?"</p> - -<p>"With tenderness, with affection, with devotion."</p> - -<p>"It is not enough, not enough, not enough," -she said monotonously, as if talking in her sleep. -"Don't you know how to love differently. More—as -I love——?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't know how."</p> - -<p>"Do you think you never can? Perhaps you -can to-morrow, or in the future?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, I never can, Anna. I shall always prefer -duty to happiness."</p> - -<p>"Poor, weak creature," she murmured with -immense scorn.</p> - -<p>He lifted his eyes towards heaven, as if seeking -strength to endure his martyrdom.</p> - -<p>"So," Anna went on, slowly, "if we were to -live together, you would be unhappy?"</p> - -<p>"We should both be unhappy, and the sight of -your unhappiness, of which I should be the cause, -would kill me."</p> - -<p>"Well, then?"</p> - -<p>"It's for you to say what you wish."</p> - -<p>The cruel, the terrible reality was clear to her; -there was only one thing to be said, and that was -so unexpectedly dreadful that she hesitated to say -it. The truth was so horrible, she could not bear -to give it shape in speech. She looked at him—at -this man who, to save her, inflicted such inexpressible -pain upon her. And he understood that -Anna could not pronounce the last words. He -himself, in spite of his great courage, could not -speak them, those last words, for he loved the girl -wildly. The terrible truth appalled them both.</p> - -<p>She got up stiffly and went to the window and -leaned her forehead against the glass, looking out -over the country and down the lane that led to -the little station. Twice before that day she had -looked at the same silent landscape; but in the -morning, when she was alone, waiting, thrilling -with hope, and again, only an hour ago, leaning -on Giustino's arm, she had possessed entire the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -priceless treasure of a great love. Now, now all -was over; nevermore, nevermore would she know -the delight of love: all was over, all, all.</p> - -<p>Giustino had not moved from where he sat with -his face buried in his hands. Suddenly Anna -seized him by the shoulders, forced him to raise -his head, and began to speak, so close to him that -he could feel her warm breath on his cheek.</p> - -<p>"And yet you did love me," she said, passionately. -"You can't deny it; I know it. I have -seen you turn pale when you met me, as pale as I -myself. If I spoke to you my voice made your -eyes brighten, as your voice made my heart leap. -You looked for me everywhere, as I looked for -you, feeling that the world would be colourless -without love. And your letters bore the imprint -of a great tenderness. But that is love, true love, -passionate love, which isn't forgotten in a day -or in a year, for which a whole life-time is not -sufficient. It isn't possible that you don't love me -any more. You do love me; you are deceiving -me when you say you don't. I don't know why. -But speak the truth—tell me that it is impossible -for you to have got over such a passion."</p> - -<p>He felt all his courage leaving him under this -tumult of words.</p> - -<p>"Giustino, Giustino, think of what you are -doing in denying our love. Think of the two -lives you are ruining; for you yourself will be as -miserable as I. Giustino, you will kill me; if you -leave me here, I shall kill myself. Let us go -away; let us go away together. Take me away. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -You love me. Let us start at once; now is the -time."</p> - -<p>It seemed for a moment as if he were on the -point of giving way. He was a man with a -man's nerves, a man's senses, a man's heart; and -he loved her ardently. But when again she begged -him to fly with her, and he felt himself almost -yielding, he made a great effort to resist her.</p> - -<p>"I can't, Anna; I cannot," he said in a low -voice.</p> - -<p>"Then you wish me to die?"</p> - -<p>"You won't die. You are young. You will -live to be happy again."</p> - -<p>"All is over for me, Giustino. This is death."</p> - -<p>"No, it's not death, Anna."</p> - -<p>"You talk like Cesare Dias," she cried, moving -away from him. "You speak like a sceptic who -has neither love nor faith. You are like him—corrupt, -cynical——"</p> - -<p>"You insult me; but you're right."</p> - -<p>"I am dishonoured: do you realise that? I -am a fugitive from my people; I am alone here -with you in an hotel. I am dishonoured, dishonoured, -coward that you are. You can go -home quietly, having had an amusing adventure; -but I—I have no home any more. I was a good -girl; now I am lost."</p> - -<p>"Your people know where you are and what -you have done—that you have done nothing -wrong. They know that you have done it in -response to a generous impulse for one who was -not worthy of you, but who has respected you."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And who told them?"</p> - -<p>"I."</p> - -<p>"When?"</p> - -<p>"This morning."</p> - -<p>"To whom did you tell it?"</p> - -<p>"To your sister and your guardian."</p> - -<p>"Did they come to ask you?"</p> - -<p>"No, I went to them."</p> - -<p>"And what did you agree upon amongst you?"</p> - -<p>"That I should come here and meet you."</p> - -<p>"And then?"</p> - -<p>"That I should leave you."</p> - -<p>"When?"</p> - -<p>"When Cesare Dias was ready to come and -fetch you."</p> - -<p>"It's a beautiful plan," she said, icily. "The -plan of calm, practical men. Bravo, bravo! -You—you ran to my people, to exculpate yourself, -to accuse me, to reassure them. Good, good! -I am a mad child, guilty of a youthful escapade, -which fortunately hasn't touched my reputation. -You denounced me, told them that I wanted to -elope with you; and you are a gentleman! -Good! The whole thing was wonderfully well -combined. I am to return home with Cesare Dias -as if I had made a harmless little excursion, and -what's done is done. You're right, of course; -Cesare Dias is right; Laura Acquaviva, who has -never loved and who despises those who love, -Laura is right; you are all right. I alone am wrong. -Oh, the laughable adventure! To attempt an -elopement, and to fail in it, because the man won't -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> -elope. To return home because your lover has -denounced you to your family! What a -comedy! You are right. There has been no -catastrophe. The solution is immensely humorous: -I know it. I am like a suicide who didn't kill -herself. You are right. I am wrong. You—you——" -And she looked him full in the face, -withering him with her glance. "Begone! I -despise you. Begone!"</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna, don't send me away like this."</p> - -<p>"Begone! The cowardly way in which you -have behaved is past contempt. Begone!"</p> - -<p>"We mustn't part like this."</p> - -<p>"We are already parted, utterly separated. We -have always been separated. Go away."</p> - -<p>"Anna, what I have done I have done for -your sake, for your good. Now you send me -away. Afterwards you will do me justice. I am -an honourable man—that is my sin."</p> - -<p>"I don't know you. Good-day."</p> - -<p>"But what will you do alone here?"</p> - -<p>"That doesn't concern you. Good-day."</p> - -<p>"Let me wait for Cesare Dias."</p> - -<p>"If you don't go at once I'll open the window -and throw myself from the balcony," she said, with -so much firmness that he believed her.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, then."</p> - -<p>"Good-bye."</p> - -<p>She stood in the middle of the room, a small -red spot burning in each of her cheeks, and -watched him go out, heard him descend the staircase, -slowly, with the heavy step of one bearing -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> -a great burden. She leaned from the window -and saw the shadow of a man issue from the door -of the inn—it was Giustino. He stood still for a -moment, and then turned into the high road that -leads to Pompeii from Torre Annunziata, and -again stood still, as if to wait for somebody there. -Anna saw him turn towards the windows of the -hotel, and gaze up at them earnestly. At last he -moved slowly away and disappeared.</p> - -<p>Anna came back into the room, and threw -herself upon the sofa, biting its cushions to keep -herself from screaming. Her head was on fire, -but she couldn't weep—not a tear, not a single -tear.</p> - -<p>And in the midst of her trouble, constantly—whether, -as at one moment, she was pitying herself -as a poor child to whom a monstrous wrong -had been done, or as, at the next, burning with -scorn as a great lady offended in her pride; or -again, blushing with shame as she thought of the -imminent arrival of Cesare Dias—in the midst of -it all, through it all, constantly, one little agonising, -implacable phrase kept repeating itself: "All is -over, all is over, all is over!"</p> - -<p>Presently a servant brought in a light.</p> - -<p>"Please, madam, do you mean to stay the -night?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"The last train for Naples has already left. -You can go back by way of Torre Annunziata in -a carriage."</p> - -<p>"Some one is coming for me," she said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> - -<p>The servant left the room.</p> - -<p>By-and-by she heard her name called: "Anna! -Anna!"</p> - -<p>She fell on her knees before Cesare Dias, sobbing: -"Forgive me, forgive me."</p> - -<p>He, with a tremor in his voice, murmured, "My -poor child."</p> - -<p>And at home, in her own house, she said to her -sister: "Laura, forgive me."</p> - -<p>"My poor Anna."</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>III.</h2> - -<p>For three weeks Anna lay at the point of death, -prey to a violent attack of scarlet fever, alternating -between delirium and stupor, and always moaning -in her pain; while Laura, Stella Martini, and a -Sister of Charity watched at her bedside.</p> - -<p>But she did not die. The fever reached its -crisis, and then, little by little, day by day, abated.</p> - -<p>At last her struggle with death was finished, but -Anna had lost in it the best part of her youth. -Thus a valorous warrior survives the battle indeed, -but returns to his friends the phantom of -himself—an object of pity to those who saw him -set forth, strong and gallant.</p> - -<p>When the early Neapolitan spring began to -show itself, at the end of February, she was convalescent, -but so weak that she could scarcely -support the weight of her thick black hair. Stella -Martini tried very patiently to comb it so gently -that Anna should not have to move, braiding it in -two long plaits; in this way it would seem less -heavy. From time to time a big tear would roll -down the invalid's cheek.</p> - -<p>She was weeping silently, slowly; and when -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -Laura or Stella Martini, or Sister Crocifissa would -ask her: "What is it; what can we do for you?" -Anna would answer with a sign which seemed to -say: "Let me weep; perhaps it will do me good -to weep."</p> - -<p>"Let her weep, it will do her good to weep," -was what the great doctor Antonio Amati had -said also. "Let her do whatever pleases her; -refuse her nothing if you can help it."</p> - -<p>So her nurses, obedient to the doctor, did not -try to prevent her weeping, did not even try to -speak comforting words to her. Perhaps it was -not so much an active sorrow that made her shed -these tears, as a sort of sad relief.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias during this anxious time put aside -his occupations of a gay bachelor, and called two -or three times a day at the palace in Piazza Gerolomini -to inquire how Anna was. The two girls -had no nearer relative than he; and he, indeed, -was not a relative: he was their guardian, an old -friend of their father's, a companion of the youthful -sports of Francesco Acquaviva. The young -wife of Francesco had died five years after the -birth of her second daughter, Laura, who resembled -her closely: and thereupon her husband had proceeded -to shorten his own life by throwing himself -into every form of worldly dissipation. The two -children, growing up in the house, motherless in -the midst of profuse luxury, could exert no restraining -influence upon their father, who seemed -bent upon enjoying every minute of his existence -as if he realised that its end was near. His constant -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -companion was the cold, calm, sceptical -Cesare Dias, a man who appeared to despise the -very pleasures it was his one business to pursue. -And when Francesco Acquaviva fell ill, and was -about to die, he could think of nothing better than -to make the partner of his follies the guardian of -his children.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias had discharged his duties, not without -some secret annoyance, with a gentlemanlike -correctness; never treating his wards with much -familiarity, rarely showing himself in public with -them, keeping them at a distance, indeed, and feeling -very little interest in them. He was their -guardian—he, a man who, of all things, had least -desired to have a family, who spent the whole of -his income upon himself, who hated sentiment, -who had no ideal of friendship. Cesare Dias, a -man without tenderness, without affection, without -sympathy, was the guardian of two young girls. -He was this by the freak of Francesco Acquaviva. -Dias would be glad enough when the day came -for the girls to marry. When people congratulated -him upon his situation as a rich bachelor -with no obligations, he responded with a somewhat -sarcastic smile: "Pity me rather; I've got -two children—a legacy from Francesco Acquaviva."</p> - -<p>"Oh, they'll soon be married."</p> - -<p>"I hope so," he murmured devoutly.</p> - -<p>As he watched the girls grow up, the character -of Laura, haughty, and reserved, and silent, as if -she had already known a thousand disillusions, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -began vaguely to please him, as if he saw obscurely -in a looking-glass a face that distantly -resembled his own: a faint admiration which was -really but reflex admiration of himself. The character -of Anna, on the contrary, open, loyal, impressionable -and impulsive, a character full of strong -likes and dislikes—imaginative, enthusiastic, generous—had -always roused in him a certain antipathy.</p> - -<p>In her presence he seemed even colder and -more indifferent than elsewhere; merciless for all -human weakness, disdainful of all human interests.</p> - -<p>It would have been a miracle if two such incompatible -natures, each so positive, had not -repelled each other. Sometimes, though, Anna -could not help feeling a certain secret respect for -this man, who perhaps had good reasons—reasons -born of suffering—for the contempt with which he -regarded his fellow-beings; and sometimes Dias -told himself that it was ridiculous to be angry -with this strange child, for she was a worthy -daughter of Francesco Acquaviva, a man who had -tossed his life to the winds of pleasure. Dias -asked himself scornfully, "What does it matter?"</p> - -<p>And so, when he learned that his ward had -fallen in love with an obscure and penniless youth, -he shrugged his shoulders, murmuring, "Rhetoric!" -He deemed it wiser not to speak to her about the -matter, for he knew that the flame of love is only -fanned by the wind of contradiction; besides, it is -always useless to talk sensibly to a silly girl.</p> - -<p>When Giustino Morelli had called upon him -and humbly asked for Anna's hand, Dias opposed -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -to the ingenuous eloquence of love the cynical -philosophy of the world, and thought his trouble -ended when he saw the young man go away, -pale and resigned. "Rhetoric, rhetoric!" was his -mental commentary; and he had a theory that -what he called rhetoric could be trusted to die a -natural death. So he went back to his usual -occupation, giving the affair no further thought.</p> - -<p>But chemical analysis cannot explain spontaneous -generation; criticism cannot explain -genius; and no more can cold reason explain or -understand youthful passion.</p> - -<p>When it came to the knowledge of Cesare Dias -that Anna had left her home to give herself into -the keeping of a poor nobody, he was for a -moment stupefied; he seemed for a moment to -have a vision of that force whose existence he -had hitherto doubted, which can lift hearts up to -dizzy heights, and human beings far above convention. -He was a man of few words, a man of -action, but now he was staggered, nonplussed. A -child who could play her reputation and her -future like this, inspired him with a sort of vague -respect, a respect for the power that moved her. -Ah, there was a convulsion in the soul of Cesare -Dias, the man of fixed ideas and easy aphorisms, -who suddenly found himself face to face with -a moral crisis in which the life of his young -ward might be wrecked. And he felt a pang of -self-reproach. He ought to have watched more -carefully over her; he ought to have been kinder -to her; he ought not to have left her to walk -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -unguided in the dangerous path of youth and -love.</p> - -<p>He felt a certain pity for the poor weak -creature, who had gone, as it were, headlong over -a precipice without calling for help. He thought -that, if she had been his own daughter, he would -have endeavoured to cultivate her common sense, -to show her that it was impossible for people to -live constantly at concert pitch. He had, therefore, -failed in his duty towards her, in his office of -protector and friend; and yet what faith her dead -father, Francesco Acquaviva, had had in him, in -his wisdom, in his affection! Anna, who had -hitherto inspired him only with that disdain which -practical men feel for sentimentalists, now moved -him to compassion, as a defenceless being exposed -to all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. -And during his drive from Naples to Pompeii he -promised himself that he would be very kind to -her, very gentle. If she had flown from her -home, it was doubtless because the love that -Giustino Morelli bore her had appeared greater to -her than the love of her own people; and doubtless, -too, there are hearts to whom love is as -necessary as bread is to the body. Never before -had Cesare Dias felt such an emotion as beset -him now during that long drive to Pompeii; for -years he had been on his guard against such -emotions.</p> - -<p>And, accordingly, after that fatal day on which -he brought her back to her house, he and Laura -and Stella Martini all tried to create round Anna -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> -a peaceful atmosphere of kindness and indulgence, -as if she had committed a grave but generous -error, by whose consequences she alone was hurt. -Laura—silent, thoughtful, with her dreamy grey -eyes, her placid face—nursed Anna through her -fever with quiet sisterly devotion. Cesare Dias -called every morning, entering the room on tiptoe, -inquiring with a glance how the sufferer was -doing, then seating himself at a distance from the -bed, without speaking. If Anna looked up, if he -felt her big sorrowful black eyes turned upon his -face, he would ask in a gentle voice, the voice of -<em>that day</em>, how she felt; she would answer with -a faint smile, "Better," and would shut her eyes -again, and go back to her interior contemplations.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias, after that, would get up noiselessly -and go away, to come again in the afternoon, and -still again in the evening, perhaps for a longer -visit.</p> - -<p>Laura, always dressed in white, would meet him -in the sitting-room; and he would ask, "Is she -better?"</p> - -<p>"She seems to be."</p> - -<p>"Has she been asleep to-day?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't think she has been asleep."</p> - -<p>"Has she said anything."</p> - -<p>"Not a word."</p> - -<p>"Who is to watch with her to-night."</p> - -<p>"I."</p> - -<p>"You will wear yourself out."</p> - -<p>"No, no."</p> - -<p>Nothing else passed between them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> - -<p>Often he would arrive in the evening wearing -his dress-suit; he had dined at his club, and was -off for a card-party or a first night at a theatre. -Then he would remain standing, with his overcoat -open, his hat in his hand. At such a time, a little -warmed up by the dinner he had eaten, or the -amusements that awaited him, Cesare Dias was -still a handsome man; his dull eyes shone with -some of their forgotten brightness; his cheeks had -a little colour in them; and his smooth black -hair gave him almost an appearance of youth. -One who had seen him in the morning, pale and -exhausted, would scarcely have recognised him. -Laura would meet him and part with him, never -asking whence he came or whither he was bound; -when he had said good-night she would return to -Anna, slowly, with her light footsteps that merely -brushed the carpet.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias told himself that if he wished to -make his sick ward over morally, now was the -time to begin, while her body was weak and her -soul malleable. It would be impossible to transform -her spirit after she had once got back her -strength. Anna was completely prostrated, passing -the entire day without moving, her arms -stretched out at full length, her hands pale and -cold, her face turned on the side, her two rich -plaits of black hair extended on her pillow; -bloodless her cheeks, her lips, her brow; lifeless -the glance of her eyes. When spoken to, she -answered with a slight movement of the head, or, -at most, one or two words—always the same.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p> - -<p>"How do you feel?"</p> - -<p>"Better."</p> - -<p>"Do you wish for anything?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing."</p> - -<p>"Is there nothing you would like?"</p> - -<p>"No, thanks."</p> - -<p>Whereupon she would close her eyes again, -exhausted. Nothing more would be said by those -round her, but Anna knew that they were there, -silent, talking together by means of significant -glances.</p> - -<p>One day, Cesare Dias and Laura Acquaviva -felt that they could mark a progress in Anna's -convalescence, because two or three times she had -looked at them with an expression of such earnest -penitence, with such an eager prayer for pardon, -in her sad dark eyes, that words were not necessary -to tell what she felt. Soon afterwards she -seemed to wish to be left alone with Dias, as if -she had a secret to confide to him; but he cautiously -thought it best to defer any private talk. -However, one morning it so happened that he -found himself alone in her room. He was reading -a newspaper when a soft voice said:</p> - -<p>"Listen."</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias looked at her. Her black eyes -were again beseeching forgiveness, and Anna -stammered:</p> - -<p>"What must you have thought—what must -you have said of me!"</p> - -<p>"You must not excite yourself, my dear," he -said kindly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I was so wicked," she sobbed.</p> - -<p>"Don't talk like that, dear Anna; you were -guilty of nothing more than a girlish folly."</p> - -<p>"A sin, a sin."</p> - -<p>"You must call things by their right names, -and not let your imagination get the better of you," -he answered, somewhat coldly. "A youthful -folly."</p> - -<p>"Well, be it as you wish," she said, humbly; -"but if you knew——"</p> - -<p>"There, there," murmured Cesare Dias with the -shadow of a smile, "calm yourself; we'll speak of -this another day."</p> - -<p>Laura had come back into the room, and her -presence cut short their talk.</p> - -<p>That evening, by the faint light of a little lamp -that hung before an image of the Virgin at her -bedside, Anna saw the big grey eyes of Laura -gazing at her inquiringly; and therewith she -raised herself a little on her pillow and called her -sister to her.</p> - -<p>"You are good; you don't know——"</p> - -<p>"You mustn't excite yourself."</p> - -<p>"You are innocent, Laura, but you are my sister. -Don't judge me harshly."</p> - -<p>"I don't judge you, Anna."</p> - -<p>"Laura, Laura——"</p> - -<p>"Be quiet, Anna."</p> - -<p>Laura's tone was a little hard, but with her -hand she gently caressed her sister's cheek; and -Anna said nothing more.</p> - -<p>As her recovery progressed, an expression of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -humility, of contrition, seemed to become more -and more constant upon her face when she had -to do with Laura or with Dias.</p> - -<p>They were very kind to her, with that pitying -kindness which we show to invalids, to old people, -and to children—a kindness in marked contrast -to their former indifference, which awoke in her an -ever sharper and sharper remorse. She felt a -great difference between herself and them: they -were sane in body and mind, their blood flowed -tranquilly in their veins, their consciences were -untroubled; while she was broken in health, disturbed -in spirit, and miserable in thinking of her -past, its deceits, its errors, its thousand shameful -aberrations, its lack of maidenly decorum—and -for whom? for whom? For a fool, a simpleton, -a fellow who had neither heart nor courage, who -had never loved her, who was cruel and inept. -When she drew a mental comparison between -Giustino Morelli and these two persons whom she -had wished to desert for him—between Giustino, so -timid, so poor in all right feeling, so bankrupt in -passion, and them, so magnanimous, so forgetful -of her fault—her repentance grew apace. It was -the exaggerated repentance of a noble nature, -which magnifies the moral gravity of its own -transgressions. She felt herself to be quite undeserving -of the sympathy and affection with which -they treated her. Their kindness was an act of -gratuitous charity beyond her merits.</p> - -<p>She would look from Laura to Cesare Dias and -murmur: "You are good; you are good." And -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> -then at the sound of her own voice she would be -so moved that she would weep; and pale, with -great dark circles under her eyes, she would -repeat, "So good, so good."</p> - -<p>Her sole desire was to show herself absolutely -obedient to whatever her guardian demanded, to -whatever her sister advised.</p> - -<p>She gave herself over, bound hand and foot, to -these two beings whom she had so cruelly forgotten -on the day of her mad adventure; in her -convalescence she found a great joy in throwing -herself absolutely upon their wisdom and their -goodness.</p> - -<p>Little by little it seemed to her that she was -being born again to a new life, quiet, placid, -irresponsible; a life in which she would have no -will of her own, in which, passively, gladly, she -would be guided and controlled by them. So, -whenever they spoke to her, whenever they asked -for her opinion—whether a window should be -opened or closed, whether a bouquet of flowers -should be left in the room or carried out, whether -a note should be written to a friend who had -called to inquire how she was—she always said, -"Yes," or "As you think best," emphasising her -answer with a gesture and a glance.</p> - -<p>"Yes" to whatever Cesare Dias suggested to -her; Cesare Dias who had grown in her imagination -to the proportions of a superior being, far -removed from human littleness, invincible, dwelling -in the highest spheres of abstract intellect; and -"Yes" to whatever Laura Acquaviva suggested, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> -Laura the pure, the impeccable, who had never -had the weakness to fall in love, who would die -rather than be wanting to her ideal of herself. -"Yes" even to whatever her poor governess, -Stella Martini, suggested; Stella so kind, so faithful, -whom in the past she had so heartlessly -deceived. "Yes" to the good Sister of Charity, -Maria del Crocifisso, who passed her life in self-sacrifice, -in self-abnegation, in loving devotion -to others. "Yes" to everybody. Anna said -nothing but "Yes," because she had been wrong, -and they had all been right.</p> - -<p>She was getting well. Nothing remained of -her illness except a mortal weakness, a heaviness -of the head, an inability to concentrate her mind -upon one idea, a desire to rest where she was, not -to move from her bed, from her room, not to lift -her hands, to keep her eyes closed, her cheek buried -in her pillow. Cesare Dias called daily after luncheon, -at two o'clock, an hour when men of the -world have absolutely nothing to do, for visits are -not in order till four. The girls waited for him -every afternoon; Laura with her appearance of -being above all earthly trifles, showing neither -curiosity nor eagerness; Anna with a secret anxiety -because he would bring her a sense of calmness -and strength, a breath of the world's air, and especially -because he seemed so firm, so imperturbable, -that she found it restorative merely to look at him, -as weaklings find restorative the sight of those -who are robust. He would chat a little, giving -the latest gossip, telling where last night's ball had -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -been held, who had gone upon a journey, who had -got married, but always with that tone of disdain, -that tone of the superior being who sees but is -not moved, and yet who seeks to conceal his boredom, -which was characteristic of him.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, though, he would laugh outright at -the society he moved in, at its pleasures, at its -people, burlesquing and caricaturing them, and -ridiculing himself for being led by them.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you!" cried Anna, with an indescribable -intonation of respect.</p> - -<p>She listened eagerly to everything he said. Her -fragile soul was like a butterfly that lights on every -tiniest flower. These elegant and meaningless -frivolities, these experiences without depth or significance, -these axioms of a social code that turned -appearances into idols, all this worthless baggage -delighted her enfeebled imagination. Her heart -seemed to care for nothing but little things. She -admired Cesare Dias as a splendid and austere -man whom destiny had thrown amidst inferior -surroundings, and who adapted himself to them -without losing any of his nobler qualities. She -told herself that his was a great soul that had been -born too soon, perhaps too late; he was immeasurably -above his times, yet with quiet fortitude -he took them in good part. When he displayed -his scorn for all human ambitions, speaking of -how transitory everything pertaining to this world -is in its nature; when he derided human folly and -human beings who in the pursuit of follies lose -their fortunes and their reputations; when he said -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -that the only human thing deserving of respect -was success; when he said that all generosity was -born of some secret motive of selfishness, that all -virtue was the result of some weakness of character -or of temperament—she, immensely impressed, -having forgotten during her fever the emotional -reasons to be opposed to such effete and corrupt -theories, bowed her head, answering sadly, "You -are right."</p> - -<p>Now that she was able to sit up they were often -alone together. Laura would leave them to go -and read in the sitting-room, or to receive callers -in the drawing-room, or to walk out with Stella -Martini. She could always find some pretext for -taking herself off. She was a reserved, silent girl, -who knew neither how to live nor how to love as -others did. It was best to leave her to her taste -for silence, for self-absorption. Cesare Dias, a little -anxious about her, asked Anna:</p> - -<p>"What is the matter with Laura?"</p> - -<p>"She is good—she is the best girl alive," Anna -answered, with the feeling she always showed when -she named her sister.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias looked at her fixedly. He looked -at her like this whenever her voice betrayed emotion. -It seemed to him that it was her old nature -revealing itself again; he wished to stamp it out, -to suffocate it. Her heart was defenceless, too -impressionable, the heart of a child: he wished to -turn it into a heart of bronze, which would be unaffected -by the breath of passion. Always, therefore, -when Anna allowed her soul to vibrate in her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -voice, Cesare Dias, naturally serious and composed -enough, seemed to become more serious, more -austere; his eye hardened into glass, and Anna -felt that she had displeased him. She knew that -she displeased him as often as anything in her -manner could recall that wild adventure which had -sullied the innocence of her girlhood: as often as -she gave any sign of being deeply moved: if she -turned pale, if she bowed her head, if she wept. -Cesare Dias hated all such manifestations of sentimental -weakness. Sometimes, when Anna could -no longer control herself, and her emotion could -not be prevented from shining in her eyes, he would -pretend not to notice it. Sometimes he would -demand, "What is the matter?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing," said she, timidly conscious that by -her timidity she but displeased him the more.</p> - -<p>"Always the same—incorrigible," he murmured, -shaking his head hopelessly.</p> - -<p>"Forgive me; I can't help it," she besought him -with an imploring glance.</p> - -<p>"You shouldn't say of anything that you can't -help it. You should be strong enough to govern -yourself in all circumstances," was the axiom of -Cesare Dias.</p> - -<p>"I will try."</p> - -<p>One day in April, Stella Martini, coming home -from a walk with Laura, brought her some flowers—some -beautiful wild rosebuds, which in Naples -blossom so early in the year. Anna was seated in -an easy-chair near the window, through which -entered the soft spring air; and when she saw -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -Laura and Stella come into the house—Laura -dressed in white, breathing peace and youth from -every line of her figure—Stella with her face that -seemed to have been scalded and shrivelled up by -tears shed long ago, both bearing great quantities -of fresh sweet roses, the poor girl's heart swelled -with indescribable tenderness.</p> - -<p>Holding the roses in her hand, she caressed -them, touched them with her face, buried her lips -in them, and said under her voice: "Thank you, -thank you," as if in her weakness she could find -no other words to express her pleasure.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias, arriving a little later, found her in -rapt contemplation over her flowers, her great -fond eyes glowing with joy. A shadow crossed -his face.</p> - -<p>"See, they have brought me these flowers," she -said. "Aren't they lovely?"</p> - -<p>"I see them," he said, drily.</p> - -<p>"Aren't you fond of flowers? They're so fresh -and fragrant. I hope you're fond of them; I -adore them."</p> - -<p>And in the fervour of her last phrase she -closed her eyes.</p> - -<p>It occurred to him that she had doubtless not -so very long ago spoken the same words of a -man; and he realised that, in spite of her illness, -in spite of her repentance, she was ever the same -Anna Acquaviva who had once flown from her -home and people. He lifted his eyebrows, and -his ebony walking-stick beat rather nervously -against his chair.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Would you like a rose?" she asked, to -placate him.</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>"Because I don't care for flowers."</p> - -<p>"What! Not even to wear in your button-hole -when you go into society?" she asked, trying to jest.</p> - -<p>"They're not <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">de rigueur</i>. Flowers are pretty -enough in their way; but I assure you I have -never had the weakness to weep over them, or to -say that I adore them."</p> - -<p>"I was wrong, I said too much."</p> - -<p>"You always say too much. You lack a -sense of proportion. There are a great many -things a girl shouldn't say, lest, if she begins by -saying them, she should end by doing them, -The woman who says too much is lost."</p> - -<p>Anna turned as white as the collar of her -frock. It had come at last, the reproof she had -so long been waiting for, and secretly dreading. -He had put it in a single brief sentence. The -woman who says too much is lost. Once upon a -time, six months ago for instance, she would have -endured such a reproof from no one, such a bitter -reference to her past; she would have retorted -hotly, especially if the speaker had been Cesare -Dias. But now! So weakened was she by her -illness and her sorrow, there was not a fibre in -her that resented it; her blood slept in her -veins; her heart contained nothing but penitence. -"The woman who says too much is lost!" -Cesare Dias was right.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It is true," she said.</p> - -<p>And yet, as she said it, a new grief was born -within her, as if she had renounced some precious -possession of her soul, broken some holy vow.</p> - -<p>Cesare's face cleared. He had won a victory.</p> - -<p>"Anna," he went on, "every time that you -allow yourself to be carried away by sentimentalism, -that you employ exaggerated expressions, -that you indulge in emotional rhetoric, I assure -you, you displease me greatly. How ridiculous if -life were to be passed in saying of people, houses, -landscapes, flowers, 'I adore them!' Don't you -see what a convulsive, hysterical frame of mind -that is? As if life were nothing but a smile, a -tear, a kiss! Do you know to what this sort of -thing inevitably leads? You know——"</p> - -<p>"Spare me, I entreat you."</p> - -<p>"I can't, dear. First you must agree with me -that your attitude towards life, though a generous -one if you like, is not a wise one, and that it -leads to the gravest errors. Am I right?"</p> - -<p>"You are right."</p> - -<p>"You must agree with me that that sort of -thing can only make ourselves and others miserable, -whereas our duty is to be as happy and to -make others as happy as we can. Everything -else is rhetoric. Am I right?"</p> - -<p>"You are right. You are always right."</p> - -<p>"Finally, you must agree that it is better to be -reasonable than to be sentimental; better to be -arid than to be rhetorical, better to be silent than -to speak out everything that is in one's heart; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -better to be strong than to be weak. Am I not -right?"</p> - -<p>"You are right, always right."</p> - -<p>"Anna, do you know what life is?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't know what it really is."</p> - -<p>"Life is a thing which is serious and absurd at -the same time."</p> - -<p>She made no answer; she was silent and pensive.</p> - -<p>"It is serious because it is the only thing we -know anything about; because every man and -every woman, in whatever rank or condition, is -bound to be honest, well-behaved, worthy and -proper; because if one is rich and noble it is -one's duty to be moral in a given way; if one is -poor and humble, it is one's duty to be moral in -another way."</p> - -<p>He saw that she was listening to him eagerly; -he saw that he might hazard a great stroke.</p> - -<p>"Giustino Morelli——" he began softly.</p> - -<p>"No!" she cried, pressing her hands to her -temples, her face convulsed with terror.</p> - -<p>"Giustino Morelli——" he repeated calmly.</p> - -<p>"For Heaven's sake, don't speak of him."</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias appeared neither to see nor hear -her. He wished to go to the bottom of the -matter, courageously, pitilessly.</p> - -<p>"—was a serious person, an honest man," he -concluded.</p> - -<p>"He was an infamous traitor," said Anna, in a -low voice, as if speaking to herself.</p> - -<p>"Anna, he was an honest man. You ought to -believe it. You will believe it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Never, never."</p> - -<p>"Yes, you will. You ought to do him justice. -I, who am a man, I must do him justice. He -might have issued from his obscurity; he might -have had money, a beautiful wife, a wife whom -he loved, for he loved you——"</p> - -<p>"No, no."</p> - -<p>"Everybody loves in his own way, my dear," -retorted Cesare, icily. "He loved you. But -because he did not wish to be thought self-interested, -because he did not wish the world to -say of him that he had loved you for your money, -because he did not wish to hear you, Anna, some -day say the same thing; because he could not -endure the accusation of having seduced a young -girl for her fortune; because he was not willing -to let you suffer, as for some years, at any rate, -you would have had to suffer, from poverty and -obscurity, he renounced you. Do you understand? -He renounced you because he was honest. He -renounced you, though in doing so he had to face -your anger and your scorn. My dear, that man -was a martyr to duty, to use one of your own -phrases. Will you allow me to say something -which may appear ungracious, but which is really -friendly?"</p> - -<p>Anna consented with a sign.</p> - -<p>"Well, you have no just notion of the seriousness -of life. All its responsibilities can be -scattered by a caprice, by a passion, to quote -what you yourself have said. You would brush -aside all obstacles; and you would run the risk -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -of losing all respect, all honour, all peace, all -health, thereby. Life, Anna, is a very serious -affair."</p> - -<p>With a bowed head, she could only answer by -a gesture, a gesture that said "Yes."</p> - -<p>"And, at the same time, it's a trifling matter, -Anna."</p> - -<p>It was the corrupt, effete nobleman who now -re-appeared, the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">viveur</i> who had drunk at every -fountain, who was always bored and always -curious; it was he who now took the place of the -moral teacher. Anna looked up, surprised and -shocked.</p> - -<p>"Life is absurd, ridiculous, contemptible. The -world is full of cruel parents, of false friends, of -wives who betray their husbands, of husbands -who maltreat their wives, of well-dressed swindlers, -of thieving bankers. All of them in turn are -judges and criminals. All appearances are -deceitful; all faces lie. If by chance there -turns up a man who seems really honest, nobody -believes in him; or, if people believe in him, they -despise him. The man who sacrifices himself, -who makes some great renunciation—poor -Morelli—gets nothing but disdain."</p> - -<p>"But—if all this is true?" cried Anna sadly.</p> - -<p>"Then, one must have the strength to keep -one's own real feelings hidden; one must wear a -mask; one must take other men and women at -their proper value; one must march straight -forward."</p> - -<p>"Whether happy or miserable?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p> - -<p>She put this question with great anxiety, for she -felt that when it was answered her soul's point of -interrogation would be changed to a full stop.</p> - -<p>"The strong are happy; the weak are miserable. -Only the strong can triumph."</p> - -<p>She was silent, oppressed and pained by his -philosophy, by its bitterness, its sterile pride, its -egotism and cruelty. It seemed as if he had -built a sepulchre from the ruins of her illusions. -She felt that she no longer understood either her -own nature or the external world; a sense of fear -and of confusion had taken the place of her old -principles and aspirations. And there was a -great home-sickness in her heart for love, for -devotion, for tenderness, for enthusiasm; a great -melancholy at the thought that she would never -thrill with them again, that she would never weep -again. She felt a great indefinable longing, not -for the past, not for the present, not for the future, -a longing that related itself to nothing. And she -realised that what Cesare Dias had said was true—horribly, -dreadfully, certainly true. She could be -sure of nothing after this, she had lost her pole-star, -she was being swept round and round in a -spiritual whirlpool. And he who had led her into -it inspired her with fear, respect, and a vague -admiration. He himself had got beyond the -whirlpool, he was safe in port. Perhaps, in -despair, he had thrown overboard into the furious -waves the most precious part of his cargo; -perhaps he was little better than a wreck; but -what did it matter? He was safe in harbour.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> - -<p>She was not sure whether it was better to brave -out the tempest, to lose everything nobly and -generously for the sake of love, or to save -appearances, make for still waters, and in them -enjoy a selfish tranquillity.</p> - -<p>"You are strong?" she said.</p> - -<p>"Yes," he assented.</p> - -<p>"And are you happy—really?"</p> - -<p>"Very happy. As happy as one can be."</p> - -<p>By-and-by she asked: "Have you always been -happy?"</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias did not answer.</p> - -<p>"Tell me, tell me, have you always been -happy?"</p> - -<p>"What does the past matter? Nothing."</p> - -<p>"And—have you ever loved?"</p> - -<p>"The person who says too much is lost; the -person who wants to know too much suffers. -Don't ask."</p> - -<p>She chose a rose and offered it to him. He -took it and put it into his button-hole.</p> - -<p>At that instant Laura Acquaviva entered the -room.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>IV.</h2> - -<p>At the opening of the San Carlo theatre on -Christmas night the opera was "The Huguenots."</p> - -<p>A first night at the San Carlo is always an -event for the Neapolitan public, no matter what -opera, old or new, is given; but when the work -happens to be a favourite the excitement becomes -tremendous.</p> - -<p>The two thousand persons, male and female, -who constitute society in that town of half a -million inhabitants, go about for a week beforehand, -from house to house, from café to café, -predicting that the evening will be a success. -The chief rôles in "The Huguenots" were to be -taken by De Giuli Borsi and Roberto Stagno, rôles -in which the public was to hear these artists for -the first time, though they were already known to -everybody, either by reputation or from having -been heard in other operas.</p> - -<p>So, on that Christmas Day, the two thousand -members of Neapolitan society put aside their -usual occupations and arranged their time in such -wise as to be ready promptly at eight o'clock, the -men in their dress-suits, the women in rich and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -beautiful evening toilets. Everybody gave up -something—a walk, a call, a luncheon, a nap—for -the sake of getting betimes to the theatre.</p> - -<p>By half-past seven the approaches to San -Carlo, its portico, its big and little entrances, all -brilliantly lighted by gas, were swarming like -an ant-hill with eager people. Some came on -foot, the collars of their overcoats turned up, -showing freshly shaven faces under their tall silk -opera-hats, or freshly waxed moustaches and -beards newly pointed; others came in cabs; and -before the central door, under the portico, which -was draped with flags, passed a constant stream -of private carriages, depositing ladies muffled -in opera-cloaks of red velvet or white embroidery.</p> - -<p>By a quarter past eight the house was full.</p> - -<p>Anna and Laura Acquaviva, dressed in white -silk, and accompanied by Stella Martini, occupied -Box No. 19 of the second tier.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias had a place in Box No. 4 of the -first tier.</p> - -<p>Anna kept her eyes fixed upon him. He -glanced up at her, but did not bow. He only -turned and spoke a few words to the young man -next to him, who thereupon aimed his opera-glass, -at the girls' box; he was a young gentleman of -medium height, with a blonde beard, and blonde -hair brushed straight back from his forehead. -His brown eyes had an expression of great -kindness.</p> - -<p>Anna kept her gaze fixed upon Cesare Dias; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> -if now and then she turned it towards the stage it -would only be for a brief moment.</p> - -<p>"That is Luigi Caracciolo," said Laura.</p> - -<p>"Who?" asked Anna.</p> - -<p>"Luigi Caracciolo, the man next to Dias."</p> - -<p>"Ah."</p> - -<p>And again, Anna turned her face towards Box -No. 4, where Cesare Dias sat with Luigi Caracciolo. -The rest of the theatre hung round her in a sort -of coloured mist; the only thing she clearly saw -was the narrow space where those two men sat -together.</p> - -<p>Did they feel the magnetism of her gaze?</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias, leaning forward, with his arm on -the red velvet of the railing, was listening to the -music of Meyerbeer; now and then he cast an -absent-minded glance round the audience, the -glance of a man who knows beforehand that he -will find the usual people in the usual places.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo appeared to give little heed to -the music. He was pulling his blonde beard, and -studying the ladies in the house through his opera-glass, -while a slight smile played upon his lips. -Presently he fixed his glass on Anna's box. Had -he felt that magnetism? At any rate, he kept his -glass fixed upon Anna's box.</p> - -<p>The curtain fell on the first act.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias spoke a word or two to Luigi, and -the two men rose and left their places.</p> - -<p>Suddenly it seemed to Anna as if all the lights -in the theatre had been put out.</p> - -<p>"Stagno sang divinely," said Stella Martini.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes," responded Laura. "But didn't it strike -you that he rather exaggerated?"</p> - -<p>"No, I can't say it did."</p> - -<p>Anna did not hear; her eyes were closed.</p> - -<p>There was a rumour in the house of moving -people; there was a sound of opening and closing -doors. Fans fluttered, men changed their seats, -people went and came, many of the stalls were -empty. The round of visits had begun. -Husbands and brothers left their boxes to make -place for other men beside their wives and sisters; -to pay their respects to other men's wives and -sisters. There was a babble of many voices idly -chatting. It began in the first and second tiers, -and it rose to the galleries, the stronghold of -students, workmen, and clerks.</p> - -<p>Anna gazed sadly at that deserted box below her.</p> - -<p>All at once she heard Laura say, "Luigi Caracciolo -and Cesare Dias are with the Contessa -d'Alemagna."</p> - -<p>Anna turned round, and raised her opera-glass.</p> - -<p>They were there indeed, visiting the beautiful -Countess; Anna could see the pale and noble -face of Cesare Dias, the youthful face of Caracciolo. -The Contessa d'Alemagna was an Austrian, very -clever, very witty. She wore a costume of red -silk, and kept waving a fan of red feathers, as she -talked vivaciously with the two men. She must -have been saying something extremely interesting, -to judge by the close attention with which they -listened to her and by the smiles with which they -responded.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> - -<p>When Anna put down her opera-glass, her face -had become deathly pale.</p> - -<p>"Are you feeling ill?" asked Stella Martini.</p> - -<p>"No," the child replied, paler than ever.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps it's too hot here for you. Shall I -open the door of the box?" suggested the -governess.</p> - -<p>"Laura, will you change seats with me?" said -Anna.</p> - -<p>Laura took Anna's place, and Anna retired to -the back of the box, where she closed her eyes.</p> - -<p>"Do you feel better, dear?"</p> - -<p>"Thanks. Much better. It was the heat."</p> - -<p>And she made as if to return to the front of -the box, but Stella detained her, fearing that the -heat there might again disturb her. So Anna -stopped where she was, breathing the fresh air -that came through the open door.</p> - -<p>"Do you like 'The Huguenots,' Stella?" she -asked, for the sake of saying something, in the -hope, perhaps, of thus forgetting her desire to see -what was going on in the box of the Contessa -d'Alemagna.</p> - -<p>"Very much. And you?"</p> - -<p>"I like it immensely."</p> - -<p>"I am afraid—I am afraid that later on you -may find it too exciting. You know the fourth -act is very terrible. Don't you dread the impression -it may make upon you?"</p> - -<p>"It won't matter, Stella," she said, with a faint -smile.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you would like to go home before -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -the fourth act begins. If you feel nervous about -it——"</p> - -<p>"I am not nervous," she murmured, as if speaking -to herself. "Or, if I am, I'd rather suffer this -way than otherwise."</p> - -<p>"We were wrong to come," said Stella, shaking -her head.</p> - -<p>"No, no, Stella. Let us stay. I am all right; -I am enjoying it. Don't take me home yet."</p> - -<p>And she went back to the front of the box, to -the seat next to Laura's.</p> - -<p>"Cesare Dias and Luigi Caracciolo have left -the Contessa d'Alemagna," said Laura.</p> - -<p>"Already?"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps they will come here," suggested Stella -Martini.</p> - -<p>"I don't think so. There won't be time," said -Laura.</p> - -<p>"There won't be time," assented Anna.</p> - -<p>The house had become silent again, in anticipation -of the second act. Here and there some one -who had delayed too long in a box where he was -visiting, would say good-bye quietly, and return to -his place. A few such visitors, better acquainted -with their hosts, remained seated, determined not -to move. Among the latter were, of course, the -lovers of the ladies, the intimate friends of the -husbands.</p> - -<p>From her present station Anna Acquaviva -could not look so directly down upon Box No. 4 -of the first tier as from her former; she had to -turn round a little in order to see it, and thus -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -her interest in it was made manifest. Cesare -Dias and Luigi Caracciolo, after their visit to the -Contessa d'Alemagna, had taken a turn in the -corridor to smoke a cigarette, and had then -returned to their places. Anna, the creature of -her hopes and her desires, could not resist the -temptation to gaze steadily at her guardian, -though she felt that thereby she was drawing -upon herself the attention of all observers, and -exposing her deepest feelings to ridicule and -misconstruction.</p> - -<p>And now the divine music of Meyerbeer surged -up and filled the hall, and Anna was conscious of -nothing else—of nothing but the music and the -face of Cesare Dias shining through it, like a star -through the mist. How much time passed? She -did not know. Twice her sister spoke to her; she -neither heard nor answered.</p> - -<p>When the curtain fell again, and Anna issued -from her trance, Laura said, "There is Giustino -Morelli."</p> - -<p>"Ah!" cried Anna, unable to control a contraction -of her features.</p> - -<p>But she had self-constraint enough not to ask -"<em>where?</em>" Falling suddenly from a heaven of -rapture to the hard reality of her life, where -traces of her old folly still lingered; hating her -past, and wishing to obliterate it from her memory, -as the motives for it were already obliterated from -her heart, she did not ask where he was. She -covered her face with her fan, and two big tears -rolled slowly down her cheeks.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p> - -<p>Stella Martini looked at her, desiring to speak, -but fearing lest thereby she might only make -matters worse.</p> - -<p>At last: "We were wrong to come here, Anna," -she said.</p> - -<p>"No, no," responded Anna. "I am very well—I -am very happy," she added, enigmatically.</p> - -<p>The door of the box was slowly pushed open. -Cesare Dias and Luigi Caracciolo entered. With -a word or two their guardian presented the young -man to the sisters. The men sat down, Cesare -Dias next to Anna, Luigi Caracciolo next to -Laura. They began at once to talk in a light vein -about the performance. Overcoming the tumult -of her heart, Anna alone answered them. Stella -Martini was silent, and Laura, with her eyes half -shut, listened without speaking.</p> - -<p>"Stagno is a great artist; he is immensely -talented," observed Luigi Caracciolo, with a bland -smile, passing his fingers slowly through his -blonde beard.</p> - -<p>"And so much feeling—so much sentiment," -added Anna.</p> - -<p>"To say that he is talented, that he is an artist, -is enough," replied Cesare Dias, with an accent in -which severity was tempered by politeness.</p> - -<p>Anna assented, bowing her head.</p> - -<p>"For the rest, the number of decent opera -singers on the modern stage is becoming less and -less. We have a multitude of mediocrities, -with here and there a star," continued Luigi -Caracciolo.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Ah, I have heard the great ones," sighed -Cesare Dias.</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes. You must have heard Fraschini, -Negrini, and Nourrit in their time," Luigi Caracciolo -said, smiling with the fatuity of a fellow -of twenty who imagines that his youth will last -for ever.</p> - -<p>"You were a boy when I heard them, that's a -fact—which doesn't prevent my being an old man -now," rejoined Cesare Dias, with that shadow of -melancholy in his voice which seemed so inconsistent -with his character.</p> - -<p>"What do years matter?" asked Anna, suddenly. -"Other things matter much more; other -things affect us more profoundly, more intimately, -than years. Years are mere external, insignificant -facts."</p> - -<p>"Thanks for that kindly defence, my dear," -Cesare Dias exclaimed, laughing; "but it only -springs from the goodness of your heart."</p> - -<p>"From the radiance of youth," said Luigi -Caracciolo, bowing, to underline his compliment.</p> - -<p>Anna was silent and agitated. Nothing so -easily upset her equilibrium as light wordly conversation, -based upon personalities and frivolous -gallantry.</p> - -<p>"Not enough, not enough," said Cesare Dias, -wishing to cap the compliment, and at the same -time to bring his own philosophy into relief. "As -often as I find myself in the presence of these two -girls, Luigi, who are two flowers of youthfulness, I -seem to feel older than ever. I feel that I must -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -be a hundred at least. How many changes of -Government have I seen? Eight or nine, perhaps. -Yes, I'm certainly more than a hundred, dear -Anna."</p> - -<p>And he turned towards her with a light ironical -smile.</p> - -<p>"Why do you say such things—such sad -things?" murmured Anna.</p> - -<p>"Indeed they are sad—indeed they are. Youth -is the only treasure whose loss one may weep for -the whole of one's life."</p> - -<p>"But don't feel badly about it, dear Cesare. -Consider. Isn't knowledge better than ignorance? -Isn't the calm of autumn better than the -storms of spring? You are our master—the -master of us all. We all revere him, don't we, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Signorina</i>?" -said Luigi, turning to Anna.</p> - -<p>A shadow crossed Anna's face, and she let the -conversation drop.</p> - -<p>"And you, who say nothing, reasonable and -placid Laura?" asked Cesare Dias. "Which is -better—youth or age? Which is better—knowledge -or ignorance? Here are knotty problems -submitted to your wisdom, dear Minerva. You -are a young girl, but you are also Minerva. Illuminate -us. Who should be the happier—I, the -master, or Caracciolo, my pupil?"</p> - -<p>Laura thought for a moment, with an intent -expression in her beautiful eyes, and then answered:</p> - -<p>"It is best to combine the two—to have youth -and wisdom together."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> - -<p>"The problem is solved!" cried Cesare Dias.</p> - -<p>"And the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entr'acte</i> is over; everything in its -time. Good evening, good evening; good-bye, -Cesare," said Luigi.</p> - -<p>So Caracciolo took his leave, very correctly, -without shaking hands with Dias. Dias had risen, -but Luigi seemed to understand that he meant to -stay in the girls' box.</p> - -<p>Anna, who had been looking up anxiously, -waiting, looked down again now, reassured. The -door closed noiselessly upon the young man.</p> - -<p>"A pleasant fellow," observed Cesare Dias.</p> - -<p>"Very pleasant," agreed Stella Martini, for -politeness' sake, or perhaps because she desired to -state her opinion.</p> - -<p>"In my quality of centenarian I feel at liberty -to stop where I am," said Cesare Dias, reseating -himself behind Anna, while beside him, behind -Laura, sat Stella Martini.</p> - -<p>"You won't get a good view of the stage from -there," said Stella.</p> - -<p>"I don't care to see. It will be enough to hear -it, this fourth act."</p> - -<p>Anna said nothing. Courtesy forbade her -looking directly at the scene, for thus she must -have turned her back upon Cesare Dias. It -embarrassed her a little to feel him there behind -her. She did not move. Their two chairs were -close together; and their two costumes made a -striking contrast: his black dress-suit, the modern -and elegant uniform of the man of the world, so -austere and so handsome in its soberness; and her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -gown of white silk, the ceremonial robe of a young -girl in society.</p> - -<p>She was afraid her arm might touch Cesare's. -He held his opera-hat in his hand. She forbore -to fan herself, lest he might have to change his -position. Now and then she raised her handkerchief -to her lips, as if to refresh them with the -cool linen.</p> - -<p>While Saint-Bris, stirred by fanaticism, was -telling the Catholic lords of the excesses of the -Huguenots, and exciting them by his eloquence -to share his fury; while the noble Nevers, the -husband of Valentina, was protesting against the -massacre; while, through the silence of the -theatre, the grand musical poem of hatred, of -wrath, of generosity, of love, and of piety, was -surging up to the fascinated audience, Anna was -thrilling at the thought that Cesare Dias was -looking at her, at her hair, at her lips, at her -person; she felt that she was badly dressed, pale, -awkward, stupid. Wasn't the Contessa d'Alemagna -a thousand times more beautiful than she? The -Contessa d'Alemagna, with her dark complexion -and her blue eyes, and her expression of girlish -ingenuousness deliciously contrasted with womanly -charm; the Contessa d'Alemagna, whom Cesare -Dias had visited before coming to his ward's box. -Weren't there a hundred women of their set -present in the theatre this evening, each of them -lovelier than she? Young girls, smiling brides, -and ladies to whom maturity lent a richer attraction, -all of them acquaintances of Cesare Dias, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -who, from time to time, looked at them through -his opera-glass. And, indeed, her own sister, -the wise Minerva, was she not more beautiful, -more maidenly, more poetical than Anna? Was -it not because of her beauty, her pure profile, her -calm smile, that Cesare had called her by that -gracious name, Minerva?</p> - -<p>Anna bowed her head, as if oppressed by the -heat and by the music, but really from a sense of -self-contempt and humiliation. There was a -looking-glass behind her. She was sorry now -that she hadn't made an inspection of herself in it, -on entering the box. She had forgotten her own -face. Fantastically, she imagined it as brown -and scarred, and hideously pallid. Her white -frock made it worse. She registered a silent vow -that she would always hereafter wear black. Only -blonde women could afford to dress in white.</p> - -<p>"You have dropped your fan," said Cesare -Dias, stooping to recover it.</p> - -<p>He smiled as he handed it to her.</p> - -<p>"Thank you," said she, taking the fan.</p> - -<p>Presently she put it down on an empty chair -next to her. Cesare Dias picked it up, and -began to fan himself. Then he pressed it to his -face.</p> - -<p>"What is it perfumed with?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Heliotrope."</p> - -<p>"I like it," he said, and put the fan down.</p> - -<p>She was burning with a desire to take it, to -touch what he had touched, but she dared not.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias leaned forward a little, to look at -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -the stage. He was so close to her, it seemed to -Anna that she could hear him breathe.</p> - -<p>For her own part, a sort of intoxication, due no -doubt in some measure to the passionate art of the -great composer, whose music surged like a flood -about her, had mounted from her heart to her -brain; she was conscious of nothing save a great -world of love, save the near presence of Cesare -Dias. Her soul held a new and precious treasure, -a new joy. She delighted herself with the illusion -that the beating of her own heart was the beating -of Cesare's. She forgot everything—the place, -the time, the future, youth, age, beauty, everything; -motionless, with her eyes cast down, she -seemed to float in a wave of soft warm light, -aware of one single sweet sensation, his nearness -to her. She had forgotten the stage, the people -round her, Stella Martini, her sister Laura; the -music itself was only a distant echo; her whole -being was concentrated in an ecstasy, which she -hoped might never end. She did not dare to -move or speak, lest she might thereby wake from -her heavenly dream. She had again entered anew -into the land of passion. She was one of those -natures which, having ceased to love, begin again -to love.</p> - -<p>"I could die like this," she thought.</p> - -<p>She felt that she could die thus, in a divine -moment, when new love, young and strong, has not -yet learned the lessons of sorrow, of shame, of -worldly wickedness, that await it; it would be -sweet to die with one's illusions undisturbed, to die -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -in the fulness of youth, before one's ideals have -begun to decay; to die loving, rather than to live -to see love die.</p> - -<p>So, on the stage, Raoul and Valentina, victims -of an irrepressible but impossible passion, were -calling upon Heaven for death, praying to be -allowed to die in their divine moment of love. -Anna, recoiling from the thought of the future, -with its inevitable vicissitudes, struggles, tears, and -disappointments, realised the fascination of death. -Involuntarily, she looked at Cesare. He smiled -upon her, and thereat she too smiled, like his -faithful image in a mirror. And her sublime longing -to die, disappeared before the reality of his -smile.</p> - -<p>She looked at him again, but this time he was -intent upon the scene. Anna felt that her love -was being sung for her by the artists there, by -Raoul and Valentina.</p> - -<p>Cesare said to her, "How beautiful it is!"</p> - -<p>"It is beautiful," she murmured, bowing her -head.</p> - -<p>It seemed to her that his voice had been unusually -soft. What was the reason? What -commotion was taking place in his heart? She -asked herself these questions, but could not answer -them. She loved him. That was enough. She -loved him; she could not hope to be loved by -him.</p> - -<p>The music ceased. The curtain fell.</p> - -<p>"Have you ordered the carriage?" Cesare Dias -asked of Stella Martini.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, for twelve o clock.</p> - -<p>"If you'll wait for me a moment I'll go and -get my overcoat."</p> - -<p>The ladies were putting on their cloaks, when -Cesare came back, wearing his hat and overcoat. -He helped Stella on with hers, then Laura, then -Anna.</p> - -<p>And looking at the sisters, he said, "You ought -to have your portraits painted, dressed like this. I -assure you, you're looking extremely handsome. I -speak as a centenarian."</p> - -<p>Laura smiled; Anna looked down, embarrassed. -Her trouble was increased when she saw Cesare -politely offer his arm to Stella Martini. Had she -hoped that he would offer it to <em>her</em>? He motioned -to the girls to take the lead in leaving the box. -Anna put her arm through Laura's and went out -slowly.</p> - -<p>He conducted them to their carriage, and when -they were safely in it, "I shall walk," he said, -"It's such a fine evening. Good-night."</p> - -<p>In the darkness, as they drove home, Laura -asked, "Did you see Giustino Morelli?"</p> - -<p>"No, he wasn't there."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean? He <em>was</em> there."</p> - -<p>"For me, he wasn't there. Giustino Morelli is -dead."</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>V.</h2> - -<p>Cesare Dias encouraged the attentions which his -young friend Luigi Caracciolo was paying to his -ward Anna Acquaviva. He encouraged them -quietly, with the temperance which he showed in -all things, not with the undisguised eagerness of a -father anxious to marry off his daughter.</p> - -<p>And yet he was certainly anxious to marry her -off. He was anxious to hand his responsibilities over -to a husband, to confide to the care of another the -safeguarding of that ardent and fragile soul, which -threatened at any moment to fall into emotional -errors. A thousand symptoms that could not -escape his observant eye, kept him in a state of -secret nervousness about her. It was true, nevertheless, -that she had greatly changed for the better. -Thanks to his constant watchfulness, to his habit -of reproving her whenever she betrayed the impulsive -side of her nature, to his sarcasm, to his -biting speech, she had indeed greatly changed in -manner.</p> - -<p>A desire to obey him, to please him, a painless -resignation, a loving humility, showed themselves -in everything she said and did.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p> - -<p>He saw that she was making mighty efforts to -dominate the impetuousness of her character; he -saw that she listened with close attention to his -talk, trying to reconcile herself to those perverse -theories of his which pained her mortally. That -was what he called giving her a heart of bronze, -strengthening her against the snares and delusions -of the world. If he could but deprive her of all -capacity for enthusiasm he would thereby deprive -her of all capacity for suffering, as well.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias congratulated himself upon this -labour of his, glorifying himself as a sort of creator, -who had known how to make over the most refractory -of all metals, human nature. And yet -his mind was not quite at ease.</p> - -<p>Her docility, her obedience, her self-control, -roused his suspicions. He began to ask himself -whether the girl might not be a monster of -hypocrisy, whether under her tranquil surface she -might not still be on fire within.</p> - -<p>But had she not always been a model of sincerity? -Her very faults, had they not sprung -from the truthfulness and generosity of her nature?</p> - -<p>No; the hypothesis of hypocrisy was untenable. -Cesare Dias was far too intelligent to -believe that the intimate essence of a soul can -undergo alteration. It was impossible that a -soul so essentially truthful as Anna's should suddenly -become hypocritical.</p> - -<p>And yet he was not easy in his mind.</p> - -<p>What profound reason, what occult motive, -could be at the bottom of Anna's change of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -front? What was it that enabled her and persuaded -her to withhold her tears, suppress her sobs, -and master the ardour of her temperament?</p> - -<p>Ah, no! Cesare Dias was not easy in his mind. -He knew the strength of his own will, he understood -his own power to rule people and to impose -his wishes upon them; but that was not enough -to account for the conditions that puzzled him. -There must be something else.</p> - -<p>He was not anxious about Laura. The wise -and beautiful Minerva he could marry whenever -he liked, to whomsoever he liked. He was sure -that Laura would be able to take care of herself. -He held the opinion, common to men of forty, -that marriage was the only destiny proper for a -young girl. And it was only by means of a marriage -that he would be able to relieve himself of -his weight of responsibility in respect of Anna -Acquaviva.</p> - -<p>So, as often as he decently could, he brought -meetings to pass between Luigi Caracciolo and -his wards: sometimes at the theatre, sometimes -in the Villa Nazionale, sometimes at parties -and dances; indeed, it would seldom happen that -Cesare would speak to the girls in public, without -the handsome young Luigi Caracciolo appearing a -few minutes later.</p> - -<p>There was probably a tacit understanding between -the two men.</p> - -<p>Anna seemed to be unconscious of what was -going on. Whenever her guardian approached -her, presenting himself with that elegant manner<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -which was one of his charms, she welcomed him -with a luminous smile, giving him her hand, -gazing at him with brilliant, joyful eyes, listening -eagerly to what he had to say, and by every action -showing him her good-will. And when, in turn, -Luigi Caracciolo followed, she gave him a formal -handshake, and exchanged a few words with him, -distantly, coldly. He would try his hardest to -shine before her, to bring the talk round to subjects -with which he was familiar; but their interviews -were always so short! At the theatre, -between the acts; at the Villa, walking together for -ten minutes at the utmost; at a ball, during a -quadrille; and always in the presence of Laura, or -Stella, or the Marchesa Scibilla, the girls' distant -cousin, who often chaperoned them; and always -watched from afar by their guardian Cesare Dias.</p> - -<p>The relations between Luigi Caracciolo and -Anna Acquaviva were such as, save in rare exceptional -cases, always exist between people of the -aristocracy. They were founded upon conventionality -tempered by a certain amount of sympathy. -The rigorous code of our nobility forbids anything -approaching intimacy. Luigi Caracciolo's courtship -of Anna was precisely like that of every other -young man of his world. During the Carnival, it -became a little more pressing, perhaps; he began -to take on the appearance of a man in love. It -seemed as if he invented pretexts for seeing her -every day.</p> - -<p>Willingly or unwillingly, Cesare Dias was his -accomplice. Luigi was becoming more and more -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -attentive. If Anna mentioned a book, he would -send it to her, with a note; he would underline -the sentimental passages, and when he met her -again would ask her opinion upon it. If she -mentioned a friend of her childhood, he would -interest himself in all the particulars of the -friendship. He was burning to know something -about her first love affair; he had heard it vaguely -rumoured that she had had one, that it had -ended unhappily, and been followed by a violent -illness.</p> - -<p>And, indeed, from the way in which she would -sometimes suddenly turn pale, from certain intonations -of her voice, from her habit of going off -into day-dreams when something said or done -seemed to suggest old memories to her, it was easy -for him to see that she must have passed through -some immense emotional experience, and suffered -from some terrible shock. She had a secret! -Behind her great black eyes, behind her trembling -lips, behind her silence, she hid a secret.</p> - -<p>Luigi was in love with her, in his own way; not -very deeply in love, but in love.</p> - -<p>If Cesare Dias, in Anna's hearing, spoke of love, -of the folly of passion, of the futility of hope, the -girl bowed her head, listening without replying, as -if she considered Cesare the infallible judge of all -things.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo saw this, and it tormented him -with curiosity. Once he openly asked Dias if -Anna had not already been in love. Dias, with -the air of a man of the world, answered:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, she was interested in a young man, a -decent young fellow, who behaved very well."</p> - -<p>"Why didn't they marry?"</p> - -<p>"The young man was poor."</p> - -<p>"Was she very fond of him?"</p> - -<p>"A mere girlish fancy."</p> - -<p>"And now she has quite forgotten him?"</p> - -<p>"Absolutely, absolutely."</p> - -<p>This dialogue relieved Luigi for a moment; but -he soon felt that it could not have contained the -whole truth. He felt that the whole truth could -only be told by Anna Acquaviva herself. And -when he was alone with her he longed to question -her on the subject, but his questions died unspoken -on his lips.</p> - -<p>Luigi's attentions to her had by this time -become so apparent, and Cesare's manner was so -much that of a father desirous of giving his -consent to the betrothal of his daughter, that -Anna could no longer pretend not to understand. -Sometimes, when Cesare would come up to her, -arm in arm with his young friend, she would look -into his eyes with an expression which seemed to -ask, "Oh, why are you doing this?"</p> - -<p>He would appear not to notice this silent -appeal. He knew very well that to attain his -object he would have to overcome tremendous -obstacles; that to persuade Anna Acquaviva to -marry Luigi Caracciolo would be like taking a -strong fortress. But he was a determined man, -and he had determined to succeed. He saw her -humility, he saw how she lowered her eyes before -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -him, he felt that in most things she would be wax -under his hand. But he was not at all sure that -she would obey him when it came to a question of -love, when it came to a question of her marriage. -She might again rebel, as she had already -rebelled.</p> - -<p>Anna felt a latent irritation at perceiving -Luigi's intentions and Cesare's approval of them, -and she revenged herself by adopting towards the -young man a demeanour of haughty politeness, -against which he was defenceless. She took -pleasure in contradicting him. If he seemed -sentimental—and he was often sentimental in his -way, which involved an element of sensuality—she -became ironical, uttering paradoxes against -sentiment in general; her voice grew hard; she -seemed almost cynical. From sheer amiability -Luigi Caracciolo always ended by agreeing with -her, but it was easy to see that in doing so he was -obeying his affection for her; he had quite the air -of saying that she was right, not because he was -convinced, but because she was a charming woman -of whom he was devotedly fond.</p> - -<p>"You agree with me for politeness' sake. What -weakness!" she said angrily, with the impatience -that women take no pains to conceal from men -whom they don't like.</p> - -<p>The slight smile with which Luigi assented to -this proposition, and implied, moreover, that -weakness born of a desire to please a loved one, -was not altogether reprehensible, annoyed her -more than ever. Anna wished the whole exterior -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -world to keep tune to her own ruling thought, -and anybody who by any means prevented such a -harmony became odious to her. Such an one was -Luigi Caracciolo.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias, with his acute insight, watched the -couple rather closely. And when he saw Anna -trying to avoid a conversation with Luigi, refusing -to dance with him, or receiving him with scant -courtesy, a slight elevation of his eyebrows testified -to his discontent.</p> - -<p>One day, when she had turned her back upon -the young man at a concert, Cesare Dias, coming -up, said to her, "You appear to be treating -Caracciolo rather badly, Anna."</p> - -<p>"I don't think so," she replied, trembling at his -harsh tone.</p> - -<p>"I think so," he insisted. "And I beg you to -be more civil to him."</p> - -<p>"I will obey you," she answered.</p> - -<p>For several days after that she seemed very -melancholy. Laura, who continued to sleep in -the same room with her, often heard her sighing -at night in her bed. Two or three times she had -asked a little anxiously, "What is the matter?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing, nothing. Go to sleep," Anna replied.</p> - -<p>On the next occasion of her meeting Caracciolo, -she treated him with exaggerated gentleness, in -which, however, the effort was very apparent. He -took it as so much to the good. She persevered -in this behaviour during their next few interviews, -and then she asked Dias, triumphantly: -"Am I doing as you wish?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> - -<p>"In what respect?"</p> - -<p>"In respect of Caracciolo."</p> - -<p>"Do you need my approbation?" he asked, in -surprise. "For politeness' sake alone you should -be civil to the young man."</p> - -<p>"But it was you who told me to be so," she -stammered meekly.</p> - -<p>"I merely told you what a young lady's duty -is—that's all."</p> - -<p>She bent her head contritely. She had made -a great effort to please Cesare Dias, and this was -all the recognition she got. However, she could -not feel towards him the least particle of anger; -and the result was that her dislike of Luigi -Caracciolo took a giant's stride.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo's name was in everybody's -mouth; everybody talked about him to her—Laura, -Stella Martini, the Marchesa Scibilla. She -shrugged her shoulders, without answering. Her -silence seemed like a consent; but it is easy to -guess that it was really only a means of concealing -her unpleasant thoughts.</p> - -<p>When, however, it was her guardian who mentioned -Caracciolo, vaunting not only his charm, -but also the seriousness of his character, she -became excessively nervous. She looked at him -in surprise, wondering that he could speak thus of -such a disagreeable and vulgar person, and smiling -ironically.</p> - -<p>One day, overcome by impatience, she asked: -"But do you really take him so seriously?"</p> - -<p>"Who?—Caracciolo?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Of course—Caracciolo."</p> - -<p>"I take every man seriously, who deserves it; -and he does, I assure you."</p> - -<p>"I don't want to contradict you," she said, -softly; "but that is not my opinion."</p> - -<p>"Have you really an opinion on the subject?" -he responded, with a slight inflexion of contempt.</p> - -<p>"Yes, indeed, I have an opinion."</p> - -<p>"And why?"</p> - -<p>"Why, because——"</p> - -<p>"The opinions of young girls don't count, my -dear. You are very intelligent; there's no doubt -of that. But you know absolutely nothing."</p> - -<p>"But, after all," she exclaimed, "do you really -wish to persuade me that Caracciolo is a clever -man?"</p> - -<p>"Certainly."</p> - -<p>"That he has a heart?"</p> - -<p>"Certainly," he answered, curtly.</p> - -<p>"That he is sympathetic?"</p> - -<p>"Certainly," he repeated for the third time.</p> - -<p>"Well, well," she said, disconcerted. "I find -him arid in mind, hard of heart, and often absurd -in his manners. No one will ever convince me of -the contrary. He's a doll, not a man. Such a -creature a man! It doesn't require much knowledge -to see through <em>him</em>!"</p> - -<p>"It is quite unnecessary to discuss it, my dear," -said Cesare Dias, icily. "We won't discuss it -farther. I'm not anxious to convince you, and it -doesn't matter. Think what you like of anybody. -It's not my affair to correct your fancies. I have -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> -unlimited indulgence still at your disposal for -your extravagances; but there's one thing I can't -tolerate—ingratitude. Do you understand—I -hate ingratitude?"</p> - -<p>"But what do you mean?" she cried, in anguish.</p> - -<p>"Nothing more. Good night."</p> - -<p>He turned on his heel and went away. For -ten days he did not reappear in the Acquaviva -household. He had never before let so long an -interval pass without calling, unless he was out of -town. Stella Martini, not seeing him, ingenuously -sent to ask how he was. He replied, through his -servant, that his health was perfect and that he -thanked her for her concern.</p> - -<p>In reality, he was furious because in his first skirmish -with Anna on the subject of Luigi Caracciolo -she had beaten him; furious, not only because -of the wounds his <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">amour-propre</i> had received, but -because his schemes for the girl's marriage were -delayed. His anger was mixed with certain very -lively suspicions, lively, though as yet not altogether -clear in substance. It was impossible that -Anna's conduct should not be due to some secret -motive. He began at last to wonder whether she -was still in love with Giustino Morelli.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, he refrained from calling upon her, -well aware that in dealing with women no method -is more efficacious than to let them alone. And, -indeed, Anna was already sorry for what she had -said, not because it wasn't true, but because she -felt that she had thereby offended Cesare Dias, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -perhaps very deeply. But what could she do, -what could she do? That Cesare Dias should -plead with her for another man! It was too -much. She felt that she must no longer trust to -time; she must take decisive action at once.</p> - -<p>Cesare's absence caused her great bitterness. -Her regret for what she had said was exceedingly -sharp during the first few days. She realised that -she had been wrong, at least in manner. She -ought to have held her tongue when she saw his -face darken, and heard his voice tremble with -scorn. Instead, in her foolish pride, she had held -up her head, and spoken, and offended him. For -two days, and during the long watches of two -nights, stifling her sobs so that Laura should not -hear them, she had longed to write him a little -note to ask his pardon; but then she had feared -that that might increase his irritation. Mentally, -she was constantly on her knees before him, begging -to be forgiven, as a child begs, weeping. She -believed, she hoped he would come back; on his -entrance she would press his hand and whisper a -submissive word of excuse. She had not yet -understood what a serious thing his silent vengeance -could be.</p> - -<p>He did not call. And now a dumb grief began -to take the place of Anna's contrition, a dumb, -aching grief that nothing could assuage, because -everything reminded her of its cause, his absence. -Whenever she heard a door opened, or the sound -of a carriage stopping in the street before the -house, she trembled. She had no peace. She -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -accused him of injustice. Why was he so unjust -towards her, towards <em>her</em> who ever since that -fatal day at Pompeii had only lived to obey him? -Why did he punish her like this, when her only -fault had been that she saw the insignificance, the -nullity, of Luigi Caracciolo? Every hour that passed -intensified her pain. In her reserve she never -spoke of him. Stella Martini said now and again, -"Signor Dias hasn't called for a long time. He -must be busy."</p> - -<p>"No doubt," replied Laura, absently.</p> - -<p>"No doubt," assented Anna, in a weak voice.</p> - -<p>She was burning up with anxiety, with heartache, -with suspicion, and with jealousy. Yes, with -jealousy. It had never occurred to her that Cesare -might have some secret love in his life, as other -men have their secret loves, and as he would be -especially likely to have his, for he was rich and -idle. In her ingenuousness and ignorance, it had -never occurred to her. It was as if other women -didn't exist, or as if, existing, they were quite -unworthy of his interest. But now it did occur to -her. In the darkness of his absence the thought -came to her, and took possession of her; and sometimes -it seemed so infinitely likely, that she could -scarcely endure it.</p> - -<p>It was more than probable that amongst all the -beautiful women of his acquaintance there was one -whom he loved. It was with her that he passed -his hours—his entire days, perhaps. That was -why Anna never saw him! At the end of a week -her distress had become so turbulent, that her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -head reeled, as it used to reel when she thought of -flying with Giustino Morelli. As it used to reel -then? Nay, more, worse than then.</p> - -<p>In those days she had not felt the consuming -fires of jealousy, fires that destroy for ever the -purest joys of love. In those days the man she -cared for was so absolute in his devotion to her, -she had not tasted the bitterness of jealousy, a -bitterness beyond the bitterness of gall and wormwood, -a poison from whose effects those who truly -love never recover.</p> - -<p>But who was she, the woman that so powerfully -attracted Cesare as to make him forget his child! -The Contessa d'Alemagna, perhaps. Yes, it must -be she—that dark lady, with the blue eyes, the -wonderful toilets, the youthful colour, the vivacious -manner; she was indeed an irresistible enchantress. -Poor Anna! During Cesare's absence she learned -all the phases of hope and fear, of torturing -jealousy, of wretched loneliness. He did not come -he did not come; perhaps he would never come -again. What had he said? That he detested -ingratitude, that he despised people who were -ungrateful. Ungrateful—she! But how could he -expect her to thank him for wishing to marry her -to Luigi Caracciolo? Was she really ungrateful?</p> - -<p>Three or four times she had written to him, -begging him to come; now a simple little note; -now a long passionate letter, full of contradictions, -wherein, to be sure, the word "love" never -appeared, but where it could be read between the -lines; now a frank, short love-letter: but each in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -turn had struck her as worse than the others, as -more trivial, more ineffectual; and she had ended -by tearing them to pieces.</p> - -<p>It was she who had put it into Stella Martini's -head to send to inquire how he was; his curt -response to that inquiry struck a chill to her -heart: he was in town, and he was well. Then -she would go out for long walks with Stella, in -the hope of meeting him.</p> - -<p>One afternoon in February, at last, she did -meet him, thus, in the street.</p> - -<p>"How do you do?" she said, nervously.</p> - -<p>"Very well," he answered, with a smile.</p> - -<p>"It's a long while since we have seen you," said -Stella Martini.</p> - -<p>"I hadn't noticed it."</p> - -<p>"You haven't called for many days," said Anna, -looking into his eyes.</p> - -<p>"Many?"</p> - -<p>"Eight days."</p> - -<p>"Eight. Really? Are you sure?"</p> - -<p>"I have counted them," she said, turning away -her head, as if to look at the sea.</p> - -<p>"I'm sure that's a great compliment." And he -bowed gallantly.</p> - -<p>"It wasn't a compliment. It was affection, it -was gratitude."</p> - -<p>"Good. I see you're in a better frame of mind. -I'll call to-morrow."</p> - -<p>When he had left them, Anna and Stella went -on towards the Mergellina, walking more rapidly -than before. Anna kept looking at the sea, with -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -a slight smile upon her lips, a new colour in her -cheeks. She buried her hands in her muff. Had -he not pressed one of those hands at parting with -her? Now and then she would look backwards, -as if expecting to see him again; it was the hour -of the promenade. She did see him again, indeed; -but this time he was in a carriage, a smart trap of -the Viennese pattern, driven dashingly by Luigi -Caracciolo.</p> - -<p>She saw them approaching from afar, swiftly. -She bowed and smiled to both of them. Her -smile was luminous with happiness; and Luigi -Caracciolo imagined himself the cause of it, and -drove more slowly; and Cesare Dias was pleased -by it, for he took it as an earnest of her better -frame of mind.</p> - -<p>When Stella Martini asked her, "Shall we continue -our walk or go home?" she answered, "Let -us go home."</p> - -<p>She had seen him; she had told him how -anxiously she had counted the days of his -absence; he had promised that he would call -to-morrow. She had seen him again, and had -smiled upon him. That was enough. She mustn't -ask too much of Providence in a single day.</p> - -<p>Anna went home as happy as if she had -recovered a lost treasure. And yet Cesare Dias -had been cold and distant. But what did that -matter to Anna? She had got back her treasure; -that was all. Again she would enjoy his dear -presence, she would hear his voice, she would sit -near to him, she would speak with him, answer -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> -him; he would come again every day, at his -accustomed hour; she could please herself with -the fancy that that hour was sacred to him, as it -was to her. Nothing else mattered. It was true -that she had met him by the merest chance; it -was true, that had chance ordered otherwise, a -fortnight might have passed without her seeing -him. It was true, that he had taken no pains to -bring about their meeting. It was true, also, that -she and Stella had as much as begged him to call -upon them. But in all this he had been so like -himself, his conduct had been so characteristic, -that Anna was glad of it. It was a great thing to -have made her peace with him, without having -had to write to him.</p> - -<p>"Signor Dias was looking very well," said -Stella Martini, "we shall see him to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"Yes, to-morrow," said Anna, smiling.</p> - -<p>"I missed him immensely during his long -absence."</p> - -<p>"So did I."</p> - -<p>"You're very fond of him, aren't you?" Stella -inquired ingenuously.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered Anna, after a little hesitation.</p> - -<p>"He's so good—in spite of the things he says," -observed the governess.</p> - -<p>"He is as he is," murmured Anna, with a -gesture.</p> - -<p>When they got home, Laura noticed Anna's -air of radiant joy. Anna moved about the room, -without putting by her hat or muff.</p> - -<p>At last she said, "You know, we met Dias."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Ah?" responded Laura, without interest.</p> - -<p>"He's very well."</p> - -<p>"That's nothing extraordinary."</p> - -<p>"He's coming to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"Good."</p> - -<p>But when he arrived the next day, it was Laura -who received him. Anna, at the sound of the bell, -had taken refuge in her own room.</p> - -<p>"Oh, wise Minerva!" cried Dias, pressing her -little white hand. "You are well. You are natural. -You know no weakness. You, I am sure, haven't -been counting the days of my absence. I understand. -I am wise, too. We are like the Seven -Sages of Greece."</p> - -<p>She responded with a smile. Cesare Dias looked -at her admiringly. Then Anna came. She was -embarrassed; and red and white alternated in her -cheek. She spoke nervously, and kept her eyes -inquiringly fixed upon Cesare's face. He, on the -other hand, was calm and superior. He behaved -as if he had never been away. He had the good -sense not to mention Luigi Caracciolo; and Anna, -who was waiting for that name as for an occasion -to show her submissiveness, was disconcerted. -Dias appeared to have forgotten the ingratitude -with which he had reproached her. He had the -countenance of a man too magnanimous to bear a -grudge. And Anna was more than ever disconcerted -by such unmerited generosity. For several -days he did not speak of Caracciolo; then, noticing -how Anna said yes to every remark he made, -little by little he began to reintroduce the subject. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -Little by little Caracciolo regained his position, -became a new, an important member of their -group. He returned to the attack, encouraged by -the smile he had received that day in the Mergellina. -His manner was more devoted than ever. -He treated the girl as a loved object before whom -he could pass his life kneeling. She could not -control a movement of dislike at first seeing him, -because it was he who had occasioned her quarrel -with Cesare Dias; but Luigi did not notice it; and -she soon got herself in hand, determined to treat -him as kindly as she possibly could. It was a -sacrifice she was making to please Cesare Dias. -She closed her eyes to shut out the vision of the -peril towards which she was advancing. She compromised -herself with Luigi Caracciolo day after -day. She compromised herself as a girl does only -with the man she means to marry; accepting -flowers from him, answering his notes, listening to -his compliments; and at night, when she was -alone, she would tremble with anger and with self-contempt, -counting the steps she had made during -the afternoon towards the great danger! But the -fear of seeing Cesare Dias again absent himself -for eight days, the fear that he might again pass -eight days at the feet of the Contessa d'Alemagna, -or at those of some other beautiful woman—this -fear rendered her so weak that she went on, not -knowing where she might stop, feeling that she was -approaching the most terrible crisis of her life.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias, somewhat easier in his mind about -the girl appeared to be pleased in a fatherly way -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> -by her conduct; it seemed as if he was watching -his chance to speak the decisive word. Anna, -dreading that word, had got into an overwrought -nervous condition, where her humour changed from -minute to minute. Now she would cry, now she -would laugh, now she would blush, now she would -turn pale.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" asked Dias.</p> - -<p>"Nothing," she answered, passing her hand over -her eyes.</p> - -<p>But at his question she smiled radiantly, and -he felt that he had worked a little miracle.</p> - -<p>He was a clever man, and he knew that he -must strike while the iron was hot. He must -attack Anna in one of her moments of meekness, -or not at all. Luigi Caracciolo became more and -more pressing; he loved the girl, and he told her -so in every look he gave her. And time was flying. -Everybody who met Anna congratulated her -upon her engagement; and when she replied: -"No, I'm not engaged," people shook their heads, -smiling sceptically.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, angry with Caracciolo because -of a letter he had written to her, and which he -insisted upon her answering, she said to Dias, -who was talking with Laura:</p> - -<p>"I want to speak to you."</p> - -<p>"Good. And I want to speak to you."</p> - -<p>"Then—will you call to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. In the morning."</p> - -<p>He returned to his conversation with Laura.</p> - -<p>All night long she prayed for strength and courage.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> - -<p>And when, the next morning, she was alone -with him, too frightened to speak, she simply -handed him Caracciolo's letter. He took it, read -it, and silently returned it.</p> - -<p>"What do you think of it?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Ah!" he exclaimed, as if he did not wish to -express an opinion.</p> - -<p>"Does it strike you as a serious letter?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, it's serious."</p> - -<p>"I may easily be mistaken," she said. "That -is why I want to ask your advice. You—you -know so much."</p> - -<p>"A little," he assented, smiling.</p> - -<p>They spoke very quietly, seated side by side, -without looking at each other.</p> - -<p>"Doesn't he strike you as bold?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Who? Caracciolo? For having written that -letter?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"No. People in love are always writing -letters. They don't always send them, but they -always write them."</p> - -<p>"Ah, is that so?"</p> - -<p>"He loves you, therefore he writes to you."</p> - -<p>"He loves me?" she inquired, trembling.</p> - -<p>"Of course."</p> - -<p>"Are you sure?"</p> - -<p>"Certainly."</p> - -<p>"Has he told you so?"</p> - -<p>"He has told me so."</p> - -<p>"And what did you answer?"</p> - -<p>"I? Nothing. He asked me nothing. He -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -merely announced a fact. It's from you that he -expects an answer."</p> - -<p>"From me?" she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Every letter calls for an answer."</p> - -<p>"I shan't answer this one."</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>"Because I have nothing to say to him."</p> - -<p>"Don't you love him?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Not even a little? Don't you like him?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't love him, I don't even like him."</p> - -<p>"I can't believe it," he said, very gravely, as if -he saw before him an insurmountable obstacle.</p> - -<p>"You deceive yourself then," said she.</p> - -<p>"I see that you receive him kindly, that you -speak to him politely, that you listen to his -compliments, apparently with pleasure. That's a -great deal for a young girl to do." And he lifted -his eyebrows.</p> - -<p>"I have done it to please you—because he is a -friend of yours," she cried.</p> - -<p>"Thank you," he cried, curtly.</p> - -<p>Then befell a silence. She played with an -antique coin attached to her watch-chain, and kept -her eyes cast down.</p> - -<p>"So," he began presently, "so you won't marry -Luigi Caracciolo?"</p> - -<p>"No. Never."</p> - -<p>"He's a splendid fellow, though. He has a -noble name, a handsome fortune. And he loves -you."</p> - -<p>"I don't love him, and I won't marry him."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Love isn't necessary in marriage," said Cesare -coldly.</p> - -<p>"Not for others, perhaps. For me it is necessary," -she cried, pained in the bottom of her heart -by this apothegm.</p> - -<p>"You know nothing about life, my dear. A -marriage for love and a marriage for convenience -are equally likely to turn out happily or unhappily. -And of what use is passion? Of -none."</p> - -<p>She bowed her head, not convinced, obstinate in -her faith, but respecting the man who spoke to her.</p> - -<p>"If you don't care for Luigi Caracciolo, you -ought to try not to see him."</p> - -<p>"I will avoid him."</p> - -<p>"But he will seek you."</p> - -<p>"I'll stay in the house."</p> - -<p>"He'll write to you."</p> - -<p>"I have already said I won't answer him."</p> - -<p>"He will persevere; I know him. The prize -at stake is important. He will persevere."</p> - -<p>"You will tell him that the marriage is impossible."</p> - -<p>"Ah, no, my dear. I shan't be the bearer of -any such ungracious message."</p> - -<p>"Aren't you—aren't you my guardian?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I am your guardian. But I heartily -wish Francesco Acquaviva had not chosen me. -Frankly, I would prefer to be nothing to you."</p> - -<p>"Am I—so bad?" she pleaded, with tears in -her eyes.</p> - -<p>"I don't know whether you are good or bad. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -I don't waste my time trying to make such distinctions. -I only know that he's a fine young -fellow, handsome and rich, who loves you, and -that you, without a single earthly reason, refuse -him. I know that he is anxious to marry you, -in spite of the fact that you don't care for him, in -spite of—pass me the word—in spite of the -extravagance of your character. Excuse me, dear -Anna, but I want to ask you whether you think it -will be easy to find another husband?"</p> - -<p>"How can I tell?"</p> - -<p>"I ask, do you think another will be likely to -ask you for your hand?"</p> - -<p>"Excuse me. I don't understand," she said, -turning pale, because she did understand.</p> - -<p>"My dear, have you forgotten the past?"</p> - -<p>"What past?" she demanded, proudly.</p> - -<p>"Nothing but a flight from home, my dear. A -day passed at Pompeii with a young man. Nothing -else."</p> - -<p>"Oh, heavens!" she sobbed, burying her face -in her hands.</p> - -<p>"Don't cry out, Anna. This is a serious -moment. You must control yourself. Remember -that what you did respectable girls don't do. -Luigi Caracciolo knows nothing about it, or -nothing definite. But a man who did know -about it, wouldn't marry you, my dear. It's hard; -it's cruel; but it's my duty to tell it to you. -Marry him; marry Luigi. That is the advice of -a friend, of a true friend, Anna. Marry Luigi -Caracciolo."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I committed a great fault," she said, in a dull -voice, "but haven't you forgiven me, you and -Laura?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes. But husbands—but young men -about to marry, don't pardon such faults. With -what jealous care I have kept that secret! I -have guarded it as if I were your father. And -now you let a chance like this slip away! Not -realising that such a chance may never come -again! But another man, an equal of Caracciolo, -where is he to be found?"</p> - -<p>"It is true that I committed a great fault," she -said, returning always to the same idea; "but my -honour was untouched."</p> - -<p>"I am the only person who knows that."</p> - -<p>"It is enough for me that you know it."</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna, you're a foolish child; that's -what you are. You fall in love with a penniless -nobody, you escape from your home, you risk your -honour, and you are saved by a miracle. Afterwards, -you are ill, you get well, you forget the -young beggar; and then when a fine fellow like -Caracciolo falls in love with you, you refuse him. -You're mad, Anna. Marry Luigi Caracciolo. I -beg you to marry him."</p> - -<p>"You can't ask me that," she murmured.</p> - -<p>"Love is a fancy. Marry Caracciolo."</p> - -<p>"I can't."</p> - -<p>"But why not? It's not a sufficient reason to -say that you don't love him."</p> - -<p>"Look for another reason, then," she said.</p> - -<p>"I'll find it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p> - -<p>Cesare Dias had spoken these words in a -threatening tone, unusual to him. He rarely lost -his temper.</p> - -<p>After a long pause he asked, smiling sarcastically, -"You are in love with some one else, I -suppose?"</p> - -<p>Anna did not answer. She wrung her hands -and hid her eyes.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you answer? You've fallen in love -again, have you not?"</p> - -<p>"Again? What do you mean?" she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"I mean that to explain your refusal of Luigi -Caracciolo, you must be in love with some other -man. You little girls believe that passion is -everlasting. You believe in faithfulness that lasts, -if not beyond the grave, at least up to its brink. -Are you still in love with Giustino Morelli?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't insult me like that," she cried, in a -convulsion of sobs.</p> - -<p>"Calm yourself," said he, studying her with cold -curiosity, while she wept.</p> - -<p>"For pity's sake, don't think that of me," she -besought him; "Say anything that I deserve, but -not that, not that."</p> - -<p>"Calm yourself," repeated Dias. "We will -speak of this another day."</p> - -<p>"Listen, listen," she cried. "Don't go away -yet. Forgive me, first, for having interfered with -one of your plans. But marry Luigi Caracciolo—I -can't, indeed I can't. I never can. You smile -at my word <em>never</em>. You are right, the human -heart is such a fickle thing. Forgive me. But -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -you will see that I am not wrong. You will -never never have any more trouble with me. I -will be so obedient, so meek. I will do everything -you wish. Compared to you I am such a -little, poor, worthless thing."</p> - -<p>She was weeping. Giustino Morelli and Luigi -Caracciolo had disappeared from the conversation; -only Cesare Dias and Anna Acquaviva remained -in it. He listened with growing curiosity. If in -one sense he had lost a battle, in another his -vanity had gained a victory. A smile passed over -his face.</p> - -<p>"Don't cry," he said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, let me cry. I am so unhappy, so -miserable. I have played away my life so -foolishly. But I didn't know. I swear to you, I -didn't understand. Now all is over. I am a lost -woman——"</p> - -<p>"Don't exaggerate."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you yourself said it. You are right. A -respectable girl, who holds dear her honour, who -is jealous of her reputation, doesn't fly from her -home, doesn't throw herself into the arms of a -man. You are right—you only—you are always -right—you who are so wise. But if you knew—if -you knew what it is like, this madness that -springs up from my heart to my brain—if you -knew how I lose my head, when my feelings get -the better of me—you would be sorry for me."</p> - -<p>"Don't cry any more," he said, very low.</p> - -<p>"Ah, if tears could only wash out the past," she -sighed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising.</p> - -<p>"Don't go away." And she took his hand. -"I haven't said anything to you yet. I haven't -explained. You are going away angry with me. -But you are right. The sooner it is finished the -better. To-day I have no strength. I irritate -you. Women who make scenes are always tiresome. -But you ought to know, you ought. I -will write to you—I will write everything. You -permit me to, don't you? Say that you permit -me. I can't live unless you let me write and tell -you everything."</p> - -<p>"Write," he said, softly.</p> - -<p>"And you forgive me?"</p> - -<p>"I have nothing to forgive. Write. Good-bye, -Anna."</p> - -<p>She sat down. Dias went away. Laura and -Stella came into the room.</p> - -<p>"Well, is the marriage arranged?" asked Stella, -not noticing Anna's red eyes and pale cheeks.</p> - -<p>"No. It will never be arranged."</p> - -<p>An hour later Laura asked: "Are you in love -with Cesare Dias?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered Anna, simply.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>VI.</h2> - -<p>Anna's letter to Cesare Dias ran thus:</p> - -<p>"I don't know what name to call you by, -whether by your own name, so soft and proud, or -whether by that of Friend, which says so much, -and yet says nothing. I don't know whether I -should write here the word that my respect for -you imposes upon me, or the word that my heart -inspires. Perhaps I had better call you by no -name at all; perhaps I ought not to struggle -against the unconquerable superior will that dominates -me. I am so poor a creature, I am so -devoid of moral strength, that the best part of my -soul is unconscious of what it does, and when -I attempt to act, I am defeated from the outset; -is it not true? Ah, there is never an hour of -noble and fruitful battle in my heart! Only an -utter ignorance of things, of feelings, a complete -surrender to the sweetness of love, and, thereby, -the loss of all peace, all hope!</p> - -<p>"How you must despise me. You are just and -wise. You can't help despising a poor weak thing -like me, a woman whose heart is always open, -whose imagination is always ready to take fire, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -whose changeable mind is never fixed, whose veins, -though cured of their great fever, are still burning, as -if her rebellious blood could do nothing but burn, -burn, burn. If you despise me—and your eyes, -your voice, your manner, all tell me that you do—you -are quite right. I never seem to be doing -wrong, yet I am always doing it; and then, when -I see it, it is too late to make good my error, to -recover my own happiness, or to restore that of -others. Ah, despise me, despise me; you are -right to despise me. I bend to every wind that -blows, like a broken reed. I am overturned and -rent by the tempest, for I know neither how to -defend myself nor how to die. Despise me; no -one can despise me as you can, no one has so good -a right to do it.</p> - -<p>"When you are away from me, I can think of -you with a certain amount of courage, trusting to -your kindness, to your charity, to forgive me my -lack of strength. When you are away from me, I -feel myself more a woman, braver; I can dream -of being something to you, not an equal, no, but a -humble follower in the things of the soul. Dreams, -dreams! When you are with me, all my faith in -myself disappears; I recognise how feeble I am, -how extravagant, how incoherent; no more, never -more, can I hope for your indulgence.</p> - -<p>"I think of my past—justly and cruelly you -reproached me with it—and I find in it such a -multitude of childish illusions, such an entirely -false standard of life and love, such a monstrous -abandonment of all right womanly traditions, that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -my shame rushes in a flame to my face. Have you -not noticed it?</p> - -<p>"Before that fatal day at Pompeii—the first day -of my real existence—I had a treasury of feelings, -of impressions, of ideas, my own personal ones, -by which my life was regulated, or rather by -which it was disturbed; they were swept away, -they were destroyed, they disappeared from my -soul on that day. To you, who showed me how -great my fault was, to you, who trampled down all -that I had cared for, I bow my head, I bow my -spirit. You were right. You are right. You only -are right. You are always right. I want to convince -you that I see the truth clearly now. Let -me walk behind you, let me follow you, as a servant -follows her master. Ah, give me a little strength -you who are strong, you who have never erred, -you who have conquered yourself and the world. -Give me strength, you who seem to me the model -of calmness and justice—above all hazards, because -you have known how to suffer in silence, above -all human joy, because you understand its emptiness; -and yet so kind, so indulgent, so quick to -forgive, because you are a man and never forget -to be a man.</p> - -<p>"You despise me, that is certain; for all strong -natures must despise weakness. But it is also -certain that you pity me, because I am buffeted -about by the storms of life, without a compass, -without a star. I have already once been wrecked; -in that wreck I left behind me years of health and -hope, the best part of my youthful faith. And -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -now I am in danger of being wrecked again, -utterly and for ever, unless you save me.</p> - -<p>"Say what you will to me; do what you will -with me. Insult me, after having despised -me. But don't leave me to my weakness, don't -withdraw your support from me. It is my only -help.</p> - -<p>"What shall I call you? Friend?</p> - -<p>"Friend, I shall be lost if you do not save me, -if you refuse to allow my soul to follow yours, -strengthened by your strength, if you cast me out -from your spiritual presence, if you do not give -me the support that my life finds in yours. Friend, -friend, friend, don't cast me off. Say what you -will, do what you will, but don't separate me from -you. If you do, I shall die. I, a beggar, knock -at your door."</p> - -<p>The letter continued—</p> - -<p>"You wounded me profoundly when you said -that it was perhaps Giustino Morelli, the man -for whose sake I refused to marry Luigi Caracciolo. -I can't hear the bare name of Morelli, without -shuddering with contempt. It isn't that I am -angry with him, no, no. It is that he does not -exist for me; he is the vain shadow of a dead -man. On the evening of "The Huguenots,"—ah -me! that music sings constantly in my soul, I shall -never forget it—he was there, and I didn't see -him, I wouldn't see him. I don't hate him. He -was a poor, weak fool; honest perhaps, for you -have said so; but small in heart and mind! And -thus my contempt for him is really contempt for -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -myself, who made an idol of him. How was I -ever able to be so blind? When I think of it, -I wring my hands in desperation, for it was before -him that I burned the first pure incense of my -heart. I shall never forgive myself."</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias read this letter twice through. -Then he left his house to go about his affairs and -his pleasures. Returning home, he read it for a -third time. Thereupon he wrote the following -note, which he immediately sent off.</p> - -<p>"Dear Anna,—All that you say is very well; but -I don't know yet who the man is that you love.—Very -cordially, Cesare Dias."</p> - -<p>She read it, and answered with one line: "I -love you.—Anna Acquaviva."</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias waited a day before he replied: -"Dear Anna,—Very well. And what then?—Cesare -Dias."</p> - -<p>In the exaltation of her passion she had taken -a step whereby she risked her entire future -happiness; and she knew it. She had taken the -humiliating step of declaring her love. Would -Dias hate her? She had expected an angry -letter from him, a letter saying that he would -never see her again; instead of which she had -received a colourless little note, neither warm nor -cold, treating her declaration as he might have -treated any most ordinary incident of his day.</p> - -<p>That was the unkindest cut of all. Cesare Dias -was simply indifferent. For her, love was a -tragedy; for him, it was an ordinary incident of -his day.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> - -<p>What to do now? She could not think. What -to do? What to do? Had he himself not asked, -with light curiosity: "And what then?" He -had asked it with the sort of curiosity one might -show for the continuation of a novel one was -reading.</p> - -<p>All night long she sobbed upon her pillow.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter?" asked Laura, waking -up.</p> - -<p>"Nothing. Go to sleep."</p> - -<p>In the morning she wrote to him again:</p> - -<p>"Why do you ask me <em>what then</em>? I don't know; -I cannot answer. God has allowed me to love a -second time. I know nothing of 'then.' I only -know one thing—I love you. Perhaps you have -known it too, this long while. My eyes, my voice, -my words wherein my soul knelt before you, must -have told you that I loved you. Have you not -seen me bow my proud head daily in humility -before you? I began to love you that evening -when we came home together from Pompeii, when -my fever was beginning. Afterwards, my whole -nature was transformed by my love of you. I -don't ask you to love me. Perhaps you are bound -by other loves, past loves. Perhaps you have -never loved, and wish never to love. Perhaps I -don't please you, either spiritually or bodily. What -is passing in your mind? Who knows? I only -know that you are strong and wise, that you never -turn aside, that you follow your noble path tranquilly, -in the triumphant calm of your greatness. -Have you loved? Will you love? Who knows? -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -All I ask is that you will let me love you, without -being separated from you. I ask that you will -promise to wish me well, not as your ward, not as -your sister, but as a poor girl who loves you with -all her soul and life. I don't ask you to change -your habits in any way; the least of your habits, -the least of your desires, is sacred to me. Live as -you have always lived, only remember that in a -corner of Naples there is a heart that finds its only -reason for existence in your existence, and continue -from time to time to give it a minute of your -presence. My love will be a silent companion to -you.</p> - -<p>"Are you not the same man who said to me, -with a voice that trembled with pity, in that dark, -empty room at the inn in Pompeii, while I felt -that I was dying—are you not the same man -who said, <em>My poor child, my poor child</em>?</p> - -<p>"You pitied me. You do pity me. You will -pity me. I know it, I know it. And that is the -'then' of my love.</p> - -<p>"Don't write to me. I should be afraid to read -what you might write.</p> - -<p>"Ah, how I love you! How I love you!</p> - -<p> -"<span class="smcap">Anna Acquaviva.</span>"<br /> -</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias was very thoughtful after he had -read this letter. His vanity, the vanity of a man -of forty, was flattered by it. And Anna's love, -for the present, at any rate, seemed to be entirely -obedient and submissive. But would it remain -so? Cesare Dias had had a good deal of experience. -Anna's he knew to be a proud and self-willed -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -character; would it always remain on its -knees, like this? Some day she would not be -content only to love, she would demand to be -loved in return.</p> - -<p>He did not answer the letter. He was an -enemy to letter writing in general, to the -writing of love letters in particular; and, anyhow, -what could he say?</p> - -<p>For two days he did not call upon her. On -the third day, he arrived as usual, at two o'clock.</p> - -<p>Anna, during these days, had lived in a state of -miserable suspense and nervousness.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter with her?" Stella Martini -asked of Laura.</p> - -<p>"I don't know."</p> - -<p>But the governess tormented her with questions, -and at last she answered impatiently: "I think -she is in love."</p> - -<p>"Again?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, again."</p> - -<p>"And with whom?"</p> - -<p>"She has never told me to tell you," cried -Laura, leaving the room.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter with you?" Stella asked -of Anna. "You are suffering. Why do you -conceal your sorrow from me?"</p> - -<p>"If I am suffering, it's my own fault," said Anna. -"Only God can help me."</p> - -<p>"Can't I help you? You are in deep grief."</p> - -<p>"Deep grief."</p> - -<p>"You have placed your hopes where they can't -be realised? Again?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Again."</p> - -<p>"Why, dear? Explain it to me."</p> - -<p>"Because it is my destiny, perhaps."</p> - -<p>"You are young, beautiful, and rich. You -ought to be the mistress of your destiny. It is -only poor solitary people who have to submit to -destiny."</p> - -<p>"I am poorer than the poorest beggar that -asks for alms in the street."</p> - -<p>"Don't talk like that," said Stella, gently, -taking her hand. "Tell me about it."</p> - -<p>"I can't tell you about it, I can't. It is stronger -than I am," said Anna, and her anguish seemed to -suffocate her.</p> - -<p>"Tell me nothing, then, darling. I understand. -I'm only a poor servant; but I love you so. -And I want to tell you, Anna, that there are no -sorrows that can't be outlived."</p> - -<p>"If Heaven doesn't help me, my sorrow will -kill me."</p> - -<p>"The only irremediable sorrow in this world is -the death of some one whom we love," said Stella, -shaking her head. "You will see."</p> - -<p>"I would rather die than live like this."</p> - -<p>"But is the case quite desperate? Is there no -ray of light?"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps."</p> - -<p>"Is it a man on whom your hope depends?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Do I know him?"</p> - -<p>But Anna put her fingers on her lips, to silence -Stella. The bell had rung. And, at the sound -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> -of it, Stella heard a great sigh escape from Anna's -breast.</p> - -<p>"What is it?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Nothing, nothing," said Anna, passing her -pocket-handkerchief over her face. "Go to the -drawing-room."</p> - -<p>"Must I leave you alone?"</p> - -<p>"I beg you to. I am so upset. I want a -minute of peace."</p> - -<p>"And you will come afterwards?"</p> - -<p>"I'll come when I can—when I am calm -again."</p> - -<p>Stella went slowly away. In the drawing-room -she found Dias, who was showing a copy of -the illustrated <cite>Figaro</cite> to Laura. Dias bowed and -asked, "And Anna?"</p> - -<p>"She will come presently."</p> - -<p>"Is she well?"</p> - -<p>"Not ill."</p> - -<p>"Then she is not well?"</p> - -<p>"I don't think so. But you will see for yourself."</p> - -<p>He and Laura returned to the engravings in -the <cite>Figaro</cite>, which were very good. Stella left -them.</p> - -<p>Anna entered the room. Her heart was beating -wildly. She did not speak. She sat down -at the opposite side of the table on which the -newspaper was spread out.</p> - -<p>Dias said, referring to the pictures, "They're -very clever."</p> - -<p>"Very clever," agreed Laura.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> - -<p>Dias bowed to Anna, smiling, and asking, "How -do you do?"</p> - -<p>"Well," she answered.</p> - -<p>"Signora Martini told me that she feared you -were not very well."</p> - -<p>"It's her affection for me, that imagines things. -I am quite well." In his tone she could feel -nothing more than pity for her. "I am only a -little nervous."</p> - -<p>"It's the weather, the sirocco," said Dias.</p> - -<p>"Yes, the sirocco," repeated Anna.</p> - -<p>"You'll be all right when the sun shines," said he.</p> - -<p>"When the sun shines, perhaps," she repeated -mechanically.</p> - -<p>Laura rose, and left the room.</p> - -<p>After a silence, Cesare Dias said, "It is true, -then, that you love me?"</p> - -<p>Anna looked at him. She could not speak. -She made a gesture that said yes.</p> - -<p>"I should like to know why," he remarked, -playing with his watch-chain.</p> - -<p>She looked her surprise, but did not speak.</p> - -<p>"Yes, why," he went on. "You must have a -reason. There must be a reason if a woman loves -one man and not another. Tell me. Perhaps I -have virtues whose existence I have never suspected."</p> - -<p>Anna, confused and pale, looked at him in -silence. He was laughing at her; and she -besought him with her gaze to have pity upon -her.</p> - -<p>"Forgive me, Anna. But you know it is my -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -bad habit not to take seriously things that appear -very serious to others. My raillery hurts you. -But some day you must really try to tell me why -you care for me."</p> - -<p>"Because you are you," she said softly.</p> - -<p>"That's a very profound reason," he answered -smiling. "But it would require many hours of -meditation to be understood. And, of course, -you will always love me?"</p> - -<p>"Always."</p> - -<p>"May I say something that will pain you?"</p> - -<p>"Say it," she sighed.</p> - -<p>"It seems to me, then, that you are slightly -changeable. A year ago you thought you loved -another, and would love him always. Confess -that you have utterly forgotten him. And in -another year—what will my place be?"</p> - -<p>But he checked himself. She had become livid, -and her eyes were full of tears.</p> - -<p>"I have pained you too much. Nothing gives -pain like the truth," he said. "But there, -smile a little. Don't you think smiles are as -interesting as tears? You're very lovely when -you smile."</p> - -<p>And obediently she smiled.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, this eternal love," he went on, -"what are we to do about it?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing. I only love you."</p> - -<p>"Does that suffice?"</p> - -<p>"I must make it suffice."</p> - -<p>"You are easily satisfied. Will you always be -so modest in your hopes?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> - -<p>"The future is in the hands of God," said she, -not having the courage to lie.</p> - -<p>"Ah! that is what I want to talk about—the -future. You are hoping something from the future. -Otherwise you would not be satisfied. The future, -indeed! You are twenty. You have never thought -of my age, have you?"</p> - -<p>"It doesn't matter. For me you are young."</p> - -<p>"And I will come to love you? That is your -hope?"</p> - -<p>"I have asked for nothing. Don't humiliate me."</p> - -<p>He bowed, slightly disconcerted.</p> - -<p>He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a -little portfolio in red leather, which he opened, -drawing forth two or three letters.</p> - -<p>"I have brought your letters with me. Letters -are so easily lost, and other people read them. -So, having learned their contents, I return them -to you."</p> - -<p>She did not take them.</p> - -<p>"What!" he cried, "aren't you glad to get them -back? But there's nothing women wish so much -as to get back the letters they have written."</p> - -<p>"Tear them up—you," she murmured.</p> - -<p>"It's not nice to tear up letters."</p> - -<p>"Tear them, tear them."</p> - -<p>"As you like," he said, tearing them up.</p> - -<p>She closed her eyes while he was doing it. -Then she said with a sad smile:</p> - -<p>"So, it is certain, you don't care for me?"</p> - -<p>"I mustn't contradict you," he answered gallantly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> - -<p>He took her hand to bid her good-bye.</p> - -<p>Slowly she went back to her bedroom.</p> - -<p>There she found Stella Martini.</p> - -<p>"Do you remember, Stella, that day I left you -in the Church of Santa Chiara?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; I remember."</p> - -<p>"Well, now I tell you this—never forget it. -On that day I signed my own death-sentence."</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>VII.</h2> - -<p>The Villa Caterina was embowered amongst the -flowering orange-trees of Sorrento. On the side -towards the town the villa had a beautiful Italian -garden, where white statues gleamed amidst green -leaves, and where all day long one could listen -to the laughing waters of fountains. From the -garden a door led directly into a big drawing-room. -On the other side of the house a broad -terrace looked over the sea.</p> - -<p>This was the summer home of the Acquaviva -family. It was bigger and handsomer than the -house in Naples. There was greater freedom, -greater luxury, greater cheerfulness here, than in -the gloomy palace of the Piazza dei Gerolomini. -The girls were very fond of Villa Caterina, and -their father, Francesco Acquaviva, had been very -fond of it. He had named it for his wife. It -was here that the couple had passed all the -summers of their married life; it was here that -Caterina Acquaviva had died. The girls had a -sweet, far-away memory of their mother; in her -room at the Villa she was almost like a living -presence to them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> - -<p>When the spring came Anna began to speak -of going to Sorrento. She felt that if she could -get away from Naples she might experience a -change of soul. The broad light and ceaseless -murmur of the sea would calm her and strengthen -her. When Laura or Stella asked her, "What is -the matter?" she would answer, "I don't like -being <em>here</em>."</p> - -<p>She said nothing of her great sorrow. She -shut it into her heart, and felt that it was killing -her by inches. She passed long hours in silent -meditation, her eyes fixed vaguely upon the air; -when spoken to, she would start nervously, and -look at her interlocutor as if she had suddenly been -called back from a distant land of dreams.</p> - -<p>Those who loved her saw her moral and -physical trouble. She stayed in the house day -after day; she gave up her walks; she went no -more to the theatre. She had lost her interest -in the things that used to please her. She was -very gentle, very kind to everybody. To Cesare -Dias she showed an unfailing tenderness. She -was often silent before him. When he spoke to -her, she would reply with a look, a look of such -deep melancholy that even his hard heart was -touched. She was very different to the impetuous -creature of former times.</p> - -<p>When the spring came, with its languorous -warmth, her weakness increased. In spite of all -her efforts to conquer her desire to do so, she -would spend long hours writing to Cesare. It -was her only way of showing the love that was -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -consuming her. It was a great comfort, and, at -the same time, a great pain. She wrote at great -length, confusedly, with the disorder and the -monotony of a spirit in distress; and as she wrote -she would repeat her written phrases aloud, as if -he were present, and could respond. She wrote -thrilling with passion, and her cheeks burned. -But, after she had committed her letters to the -post, she would wish them back, they seemed so -cold, so absurd, so grotesque, and she cursed the -moment in which she had put pen to paper.</p> - -<p>Cesare Dias never answered her. How could -she expect him to, indeed? Had he not torn her -first letters up, under her eyes?</p> - -<p>Whenever his servant brought him one of -Anna's letters he received it with a movement of -impatience. He was not altogether displeased, -however. He read them with a calm judicial -mind, amused at their "rhetoric," and forbore to -answer them. He went less frequently to her -house than formerly. They were rarely alone -together now. But sometimes it happened that -they were; and then, observing her pale face, her -eyes red from weeping, he asked: "What is it? -Why do you go on like this?"</p> - -<p>"What do you wish me to do?" she returned.</p> - -<p>"I want you to be merry, to laugh."</p> - -<p>"That—that is impossible," she said, drooping -her eyes to hide the tears in them.</p> - -<p>And Dias, fearing a scene, was silent.</p> - -<p>He was a man of much self-control, but he -confessed to himself that he would not be able, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -as she was, to bear an unrequited love with -patience.</p> - -<p>Anna was a woman, a woman in the full sense -of the word. She had hoped to win his heart; -but now she relinquished hope. And one day, in -May, she wrote him a letter of farewell; she would -never write again; it was useless, useless. She bade -him farewell; she said she would like to go away, -go away from Naples to Sorrento, to the Villa -Caterina, where her mother had loved and died.</p> - -<p>She begged Laura and Stella to take her to -Sorrento. And Stella wrote to Dias to ask his -permission. He replied at once, saying he thought -the change of air would be capital for Anna. -They had best leave at once. He could not call -to bid them good-bye, but he would soon come to -see his dear girls at the Villa.</p> - -<p>Stella said: "Dias has written to me."</p> - -<p>"When?" asked Anna.</p> - -<p>"Yesterday. He says he can't come to bid us -good-bye, he's too busy."</p> - -<p>"Of course—too busy. Will you give me the -letter?"</p> - -<p>"It's a very kind letter," said Stella. She saw -that Anna's hand was trembling as it held the -white paper. Anna did not return it.</p> - -<p>"Dias is very kind," said Anna.</p> - -<p>They left Naples on the last day of May.</p> - -<p>When they reached the villa, the two girls went -directly to their mother's room. Laura opened the -two windows that looked out upon the sea and let -in the sunlight, and she moved from corner to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -corner, taking note of the dust on the furniture. -Anna knelt at the praying-desk, above which hung -a cross, an image of the Virgin, and a miniature of -her mother.</p> - -<p>Laura asked:</p> - -<p>"Are you going to stay here?"</p> - -<p>Anna did not answer.</p> - -<p>"When you come away bring me the key," said -the wise Minerva, and went off, softly closing the -door behind her.</p> - -<p>"Where is Anna?" asked Stella.</p> - -<p>"She is still up there," said Laura.</p> - -<p>"What is she doing?"</p> - -<p>"Weeping, or praying, or thinking. I don't -know."</p> - -<p>"Poor Anna," sighed Stella.</p> - -<p>How long did Anna remain on her knees before -the image of the Virgin and the portrait of her -mother? No one disturbed her. She kept murmuring: -"Oh, Holy Virgin! Oh, my mother!" -alternately.</p> - -<p>When she came away, having closed the windows -and locked the door, she was so pale that -Stella said:</p> - -<p>"You have stayed up there too long. It has -done you harm."</p> - -<p>"No, no," Anna answered; "I am very well; -I am so much better. I am glad we have come -here. I should like to live here always."</p> - -<p>But Stella was not reassured. And at night the -thought of her pupil troubled her and would not -let her sleep. Sometimes she would get up and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -go to the door of Anna's room. There was always -a light burning within. Two or three times she -had entered; Anna lay motionless on her bed, -with her eyes closed. Then Stella had put out the -light.</p> - -<p>"Why do you leave your light burning at night?" -she asked Anna one day.</p> - -<p>"Because I am afraid of the dark."</p> - -<p>Thereupon Stella had prepared a little lamp for -her, with a shade of opalescent crystal that softened -its light; and almost every night Stella -would go to Anna's room to see whether she was -asleep. Her pale face in the green rays of the -lamp had the semblance of a wreck slumbering at -the bottom of the sea. Sometimes, hearing Stella's -footsteps, Anna opened her eyes and smiled upon -her; then relapsed into her stupor. For it was -not sleep; it was a sort of bodily and mental -torpor that kept her motionless and speechless. -Stella returned to her own room, in no wise reassured. -And what most worried this good woman -was the long visit which Anna made every day to -the room of her dead mother.</p> - -<p>The villa was delightful during these first weeks -of the summer, with its fragrant garden, its big, -airy, cheerful, luxurious apartments, its splendid -view of the sea. In the cool and perfumed mornings, -in the evenings that palpitated with starlight, -every window and balcony had its special fascination. -But Anna saw and felt nothing of all this; -her mother's room alone attracted her. There she -passed long hours kneeling beside the bed, or -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -seated at a window, silent, gazing off at the sea, -with a white expressionless face. Sometimes Stella -came to the door and called:</p> - -<p>"Anna—Anna!"</p> - -<p>"Here I am," she answered, starting out of her -reverie.</p> - -<p>"Come away; it is late."</p> - -<p>"I am coming."</p> - -<p>But she did not move; it was necessary to call -her again and again.</p> - -<p>Her stations there exhausted her. She would -return from them with dark circles under her eyes, -her lips colourless, the line of her profile sharpened -and accentuated.</p> - -<p>Stella felt a great pity for her, a great longing -to be of help to her. She tried to persuade her -to cut short her vigils in her mother's room.</p> - -<p>"You ought not to stay so long. It is bad for -you."</p> - -<p>"No, no," Anna answered. "If you knew the -peace I find there."</p> - -<p>"But a young girl like you ought to wish for -the excitements of life, not the peace."</p> - -<p>"There are no more flowers for Margaret," -quoted Anna, going to the window and looking -towards the sea.</p> - -<p>During the whole month of June, a lovely -month at Sorrento, where the mornings are warm -and the evenings fresh, Anna fell away visibly -in health and spirits. Laura and Stella did not -interfere with her, but it saddened them to witness -her decline. Stella's anxiety was almost motherly. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> -When she saw Anna's pale, peaked face, when she -noticed her transparent hands, a voice from within -called to her that she must do something for the -poor girl.</p> - -<p>One day she said, "Signor Dias has promised -to come here for a visit. But he's delaying a little. -Perhaps he'll come for the bathing season."</p> - -<p>"You will see. He'll not come at all," replied -Anna, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.</p> - -<p>"He's so kind, and he has promised. He will -come."</p> - -<p>"I don't believe it," Anna answered sadly.</p> - -<p>Indeed, he neither came nor wrote. The first -fortnight of July had passed; the bathing season -had already begun. Sorrento was full of people. -In the evening, till late into the night, from every -window, from every balcony, and from the big -brilliantly lighted drawing-rooms of the hotels, -came the sounds of singing and dancing, the -tinkling of mandolines, the laughter of women—a -gay, passionate, summer music. The villas were -protected from the sun by blue and white striped -awnings, which fluttered in the afternoon breeze -like the sails of ships. At night the moon bathed -houses, country, and sea in a radiance dazzling as -snow. Anna, in the midst of all this merriment, -this health and beauty, felt only the more profoundly -a great longing to end her life. It was -seldom now that she so much as moved from one -room to another. In the evening, when Stella and -Laura would go out to call upon their friends, -Anna would seat herself in an easy-chair on the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> -terrace of the Villa, and fix her eyes upon the sky, -where the Milky Way trembled in light. And on -the sea beyond her, people were singing in boats, -or sending up fireworks from yachts. Round -about her sounded the thousand voices of the -glorious summer night, voices of joy, voices of -passion. Anna neither saw nor heard.</p> - -<p>But in Stella's face she could not help noticing -an expression of sympathy which seemed to say, -"I have divined—I have guessed." And in the -kiss which Stella gave her, before going out, on -the evening of the 17th of July, Anna felt an even -deeper affection than usual. Laura and Stella -were going to a dance at the Villa Victoria.</p> - -<p>"Be strong and you will be happy," Stella said, -and her kiss seemed meant as a promise of good -news.</p> - -<p>But the poor child did not understand. She -took Stella's words as one of those vague efforts -at consolation which people make for those who -are inconsolable, and shook her head, smiling -sadly. Lovely in her white frock, Laura too came -and kissed her. And then she heard the carriage -drive away. Anna left the drawing-room and -went out upon the terrace. There was a full -moon; its light was so brilliant one might have -read by it. There was something divinely -beautiful in the view—from the horizon to the -arch of the sky, from the hills behind her, covered -with olives and oranges, to the sea before her. -And she felt all the more intensely the sorrow of -her broken life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> - -<p>She lay back in her easy-chair, with her eyes -closed.</p> - -<p>"Good evening," said Cesare Dias.</p> - -<p>She opened her eyes, but she could not speak. -She could only look at him, and she did so with -such an expression of desolate joy that he told -himself: "This woman really loves me."</p> - -<p>He appeared to be very thoughtful. He drew -up a chair, and sat down next to her.</p> - -<p>"Are you surprised to see me, Anna? Didn't -I promise to come?"</p> - -<p>"I thought—that you had forgotten. It is so -easy to forget."</p> - -<p>"I always keep my promise," he declared.</p> - -<p>When had she heard him speak like this before, -with this voice, this inflexion—when? Ah, she -remembered: when she was ill, when they thought -she was going to die. So it was pity for one -threatened with death that had brought him to -Sorrento; it was pity that banished its habitual -irony from his voice.</p> - -<p>"The air of Sorrento hasn't cured you," he -said, bending a little to look at her.</p> - -<p>"It hasn't cured me. It has cured me of -nothing. I think I shall never be cured. There -is no country in the world that can cure me."</p> - -<p>"There is only one doctor who can do you any -good—that doctor is yourself."</p> - -<p>He opened his silver cigarette-case, took out a -cigarette, and lit it.</p> - -<p>She watched the vacillating flame of his match, -and for a moment did not speak.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It is easy to say that," she went on finally, -with a feeble voice. "But you know I am a weak -creature. That is why you have so much compassion -for me. I shall never be cured, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Are you sure?"</p> - -<p>"I am sure. I have tried. My love has -proved itself stronger than I. It is destroying -me. My heart can no longer endure it."</p> - -<p>He looked off into the clear air of the night, -watching the spiral of his cigarette smoke.</p> - -<p>"And all those beautiful spiritual promises," he -said, "that wonderful structure of abnegation, of -sacrifice, of unrequited love, has come to nothing! -Those plans for the future, which you conceived -in such lofty unselfishness, have failed?"</p> - -<p>"Failed, failed," she exclaimed, with a sigh, -gazing up at the starry sky, as if to reproach it -with her own unhappiness. "All that I wrote to -you was absurd, a passing illusion. All my plans -were based upon absurdities. Perhaps there are -people in the world who are so perfectly made -that they can be contented to love and not be -loved in return; they are fortunate, they are -noble; they live only for others; they are purity -incarnate. But I am a miserable, selfish woman, -nothing else; I have expected too much; and I -am dying of my selfishness, of my pride."</p> - -<p>She raised herself in her chair, grasping its -arms nervously with her hands, and shaking her -beautiful head, wasted by grief.</p> - -<p>He was silent. He threw away his cigarette, -which had gone out.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p> - -<p>The soft moonlight covered all things.</p> - -<p>"I am so earthly," she went on. "I have -prayed for a better nature, for an angelic heart, -raised above all human desires, that I might -simply love you, and wish for nothing else. I -have exhausted myself with prayers and tears, -trying thus to forget that you could not care for -me. I have forbidden myself the great comfort -of writing to you. I left Naples, and came here, -far from you—from you who were, who are my -light, my life. In vain, I have passed whole days -here, praying to my mother and to the Madonna -to free me from these terrible, heavy, earthly -chains that bind me to that longing to be loved, -and that are killing me. No use, no use! My -prayers have not been answered. I have come -away from them with a greater ardour, a more -intense longing, than ever. I am a woman. I -am a woman who doesn't know how to lift herself -above womanly things, who, womanlike, longs to -be loved, and who will never, never be consoled -for the love she cannot have."</p> - -<p>After a long pause, he asked, "And what do -you wish me to do, Anna?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing."</p> - -<p>"Nothing?"</p> - -<p>"There is nothing to be done. All is ended; -all is over. Or, rather, nothing has ever been -begun."</p> - -<p>"Anna, I assure you, it grieves me to see you -suffer."</p> - -<p>"Thank you. But what can you do for me? -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -It is all due to my own folly. I admit that I am -unbalanced, extravagant. I know it. I am paying -dearly for my folly; ah, the expiation is hard. -It is all due to my one mistake, my one fault. -Everybody is very kind to me, more than kind. -But I have sinned, and I must expiate my sin."</p> - -<p>"But how is it all to end?" he cried.</p> - -<p>"Do you know what the simplest solution -would be?"</p> - -<p>"What?"</p> - -<p>"My death. Ah, to rest! to rest for ever, -under the earth, in a dark grave!"</p> - -<p>"Don't say that. People don't die of love."</p> - -<p>"Yes that is true. There is indeed no -recognised disease called <em>love</em>. Neither ancient -nor modern doctors are acquainted with it; they -have never discovered it in making their autopsies. -But love is such a subtle deceiver! It is at the -bottom of all mortal illnesses. It is at the bottom -of those wasting declines from which people suffer -for years, people who have loved too much, who -have not been loved enough. It is in those -maladies of the heart, where the heart bursts with -emotion or dries up with despair. It is in those -long anæmias which destroy the body fibre by -fibre, sapping its energies. It is in that nervousness -which makes people shiver with cold and -burn with insupportable heat. Oh, no one dies -suddenly of love. We die slowly, slowly, of -troubles that have so many names, but are really -all just this—that we can endure to love no longer, -and that we are not loved. Who will ever know -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> -the right name of the illness from which I shall -die? The doctor will write a scientific word on -paper, to account for my death to you, to Laura, -to Stella. But you know, you at least, that I -shall die because you do not love me."</p> - -<p>"Calm yourself, Anna."</p> - -<p>"I am calm. I have no longer the shadow of -a hope. But I am calm, believe me. I have to -tell you these things because they well up from -my soul of their own accord. I am an absolutely -desperate woman, but I am calm, I shall always -be calm. Don't answer me. Everything that you -can say I have already said to myself. All is -ended. Why should I not be calm?"</p> - -<p>"But, if you no longer hope for anything, then -you have hoped for something. For what?" he -asked, with a certain curiosity.</p> - -<p>"Oh, heavens!" she cried. "That you should -ask me that!"</p> - -<p>"Tell me, Anna. You see that I ask it with -sympathy, with lively sympathy."</p> - -<p>"But you must have forgotten what love is like, -if you ask me to tell you what its hopes are," she -exclaimed. "One hopes for everything when one -loves. From the moment when I first trembled -at the sound of your voice, from the moment when -first the touch of your hand on mine thrilled me -with delight, from the moment when first the words -you spoke, whether they were hard or kind, scornful -or friendly, seemed to engrave themselves upon -my spirit, from the moment when I first realised -that I was yours—yours for life, from that moment -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -I have hoped that you might love me. From -that moment it has been my dream that you might -love me, with a love equal to my own, with a self-surrender -equal to my own, with an absolute concentration -of all your heart and soul, as I love you. -That has been the sublime hope that my love has -cherished."</p> - -<p>"It was an illusion," he said softly, looking off -upon the broad shining sea, bathed in the moonlight.</p> - -<p>"I know it. Why do you remind me of it? -Why are we talking of it? My soul had fallen -into a torpor. But now you rouse me from it. -My heart throbs as if you had reopened its wound. -Don't tell me again that you don't care for me. I -know it, I know it."</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna, why do you torment yourself -like this?"</p> - -<p>"Ah, yes, I have known it a long while now. -My great hope died little by little, day by day, as -I saw how unlike me you were, how far from me; -as I understood your contempt for me, your pity; -as I realised that there were secrets in your life -which I could not know; as I perceived that the -differences of our ages and tastes had bred differences -of feeling. In a hundred ways, voluntarily -and involuntarily, you showed me that love did -not exist for you, either that you would never -love, or, at any rate, that you would never love -me. I read my sentence written in letters of -flame on my horizon. And yet, you see, in spite -of the blows that fate had overwhelmed me with, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> -I was not resigned. I told myself that a young -and ardent woman could not thus miserably lose -herself and her love. I thought that there was a -way of saving herself which ought to be tried, a -humble way, but one that I could pursue in -patience. Shall I tell you my other dream?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, tell me."</p> - -<p>"Well, I dreamed that you would let me unite -my weak and stormy youth to your warm and -serene maturity, in such a manner as to complete -more profoundly and more intimately the work of -protection that Francesco Acquaviva had confided -to you at his death. You saved me at Pompeii. -That seemed to sanction a supreme act of devotion -on my part. My dream was simple and modest. -I would love you with all my strength, but in -silence; I would live with you, loving and following -you like a fond shadow. Every hour, every -minute, I would be able to offer you unspoken, -but eloquent proofs of my love. I would be your -satellite, circling round you, drinking in the light -of my sun. I would watch my chance to do for -you, to serve you, to make you happy. And in -this way, never asking for gratitude, asking for -nothing, I would spend my life, to its last day, -blessing you, worshipping you, for your kindness -in letting me be near you, in letting me love you. -Ah, what a vision! It would be worthy of me, -to make such a sacrifice of every personal desire; -and worthy of you to lift a poor girl up to the -happiness of seeing you every day, of sharing -your home and your name."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You would like me to marry you?" asked -Dias.</p> - -<p>"Your wife, your mistress, your friend, your -servant—whatever you wish will suffice for me. -To be where you are, to live my life out near -to you——"</p> - -<p>"I am old," he said, coldly, bitterly.</p> - -<p>"I am young, but I am dying, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Old age is a sad thing, Anna. It freezes -one's blood and one's heart."</p> - -<p>"What does it matter? I don't ask you to -love me. I only want to love you."</p> - -<p>"Will you never ask it of me?"</p> - -<p>"Never."</p> - -<p>"Promise."</p> - -<p>"I promise."</p> - -<p>"By whatever you hold most sacred, will you -promise it?"</p> - -<p>"By Heaven that hears me, by the blessed souls -of my mother and father who watch over me; by my -affection for my sister Laura; by the holiest thing -in my heart, that is, by my love for you, I promise -it, I swear it, I will never ask you to love me."</p> - -<p>"You won't complain of me, and of my coldness?"</p> - -<p>"I will never complain. I will regard you as -my greatest benefactor."</p> - -<p>"You will let me live as I like?"</p> - -<p>"You will be the master. You shall dispose -of your life and of mine."</p> - -<p>"You will let me go and come, come and go, -without finding fault, without recriminations?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> - -<p>"When you go out I will await in patience the -happy hour of your return."</p> - -<p>He was silent for a moment. There was another -question on his mind, and he hesitated to ask it. -But with burning eyes, with hands clasped imploringly, -she waited for him to go on.</p> - -<p>"You won't torment me with jealousy?" he -asked at last.</p> - -<p>"Oh, heavens!" she cried, stretching out her -arms and beating her brow with her hands; "must -I endure that also?"</p> - -<p>"As you wish," he said, coldly. "I see that I -displease and offend you. I am making demands -that are beyond your strength. Well, let us drop -the subject."</p> - -<p>And he rose as if to go away. She moved -towards him and took his hand.</p> - -<p>"No, no; don't leave me. For pity's sake stay -a little longer. Let us talk—listen to me. You -ask me not to be jealous; I'll not be jealous. At -least, you'll not see my jealousy. Do you wish -me to visit the woman you're in love with, or -have been in love with, or the woman who's in -love with you? Do you wish me to receive the -women who are your friends? I'll do it—I'll do -everything. Put me to the most dreadful trial—I'll -endure it. Ask me to go to the furthest -pass a soul and body can reach—I'll do it for you."</p> - -<p>"I wish to be free, heart-free, that is all," he -said, firmly.</p> - -<p>"As you are to-day, so you will always be—free -in heart," she responded.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Listen to me, Anna, and understand me clearly. -For a moment try to escape from your own personality, -forget that you are you, and that you love -me. For a moment consider calmly and carefully -the present and the future. Anna, I am old, and -you are young; and the discrepancy of our ages -which now seems trifling to you, in ten years' time -will seem terrible, for I can only decline, while you -will grow to maturity. In your imagination you -have conceived an ideal of me which doesn't correspond -to the truth, and which the future will -certainly correct, to your sorrow. Between our -characters and our temperaments there is a profound -gulf; we have no reason to believe that the -future can close it up. If I am making a sacrifice, -as I confess I am, in speaking to you thus, it is -certain that you would make a more painful and -a more lasting one in living with me. Think of -it, think of it. Think of my age, of your illusions -which must inevitably be destroyed, of our mutual -sacrifice. Anna, there is still time."</p> - -<p>She looked at him, surprised to hear him speak -in this earnest way, the man who was accustomed -to dominate all his own emotions. He was really -moved; his brow was knitted; and on it, for the -first time, Anna could read a secret distress. -There was something almost like shyness in his -eyes; he seemed less distant, less strong perhaps, -than he had ever seemed to her before, but more -human, more like other people, who suffer and -weep.</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna," he went on, "put aside all -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -selfishness, and be yourself the judge. Judge -whether I ought to consent to what you wish. I -have told you cruelly, brutally, what I shall expect -from you in return from my sacrifice. I have -repeated to you again and again what a grave -step it is that you propose. Now, my dear child -be calm, and judge for yourself."</p> - -<p>She was leaning with her two hands on the -parapet of the terrace, and kept her eyes cast down.</p> - -<p>"But why," she asked slowly, in a low voice, -"why are you willing—you who are so wise, so -cold, who despise all passion, as you do—why are -you willing to make this sacrifice? Who has -persuaded you? Who has won you?"</p> - -<p>"I am willing because you have told me that -there is no other way of saving you; because -Stella Martini has written to me saying that I -ought to save you; because I myself feel that I -ought to save you."</p> - -<p>"It is for pity then that you are willing to do -this thing?"</p> - -<p>"You have said it," he replied, not wishing to -repeat the unkind word.</p> - -<p>"God bless you for your pity," she said humbly, -crossing her hands as in prayer.</p> - -<p>There was a deep silence. He stood with his -head bowed, thinking, and waiting for her to -speak. She was looking at the sky as if she -wished to read there the word of her destiny. -But in her heart and in her mind, from the sky, -and from the glorious landscape, only one word -could she, would she, hear.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, Anna, what have you to say?"</p> - -<p>"Why do you ask? I love you, and without -you I should die. Anything is better than death. -You are my life."</p> - -<p>"Then you will be my wife and my friend," he -said resolutely.</p> - -<p>"Thank you, love," and she knelt before him.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When he had gone away, she bent down and -kissed devotedly the wall of the terrace, where he -had leaned, speaking to her.</p> - -<p>And then she went to each of the big vases -that stood in a row along the terrace, and picked -all the flowers that grew in them, the roses, the -geraniums, the jasmine-buds, and pressed them -to her bosom in a mass, because they had listened -to her talk with him. And before re-entering the -house, she looked again, with brilliant eyes full of -happiness, upon the sea and the sky and the wide -moonlit landscape.</p> - -<p>Within the house every one was asleep. The -servant who was sitting up for Laura and Stella -nodded in the anti-chamber. Anna was quite alone, -and her heart danced for joy.</p> - -<p>Silently she passed through the house, and entered -her mother's room.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mamma, Mamma, it is you who have done -this," she said.</p> - - -<p class="center" style= "margin-top: 6em;">END OF PART I.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="no-break">PART II</h2> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a><br /><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>I.</h2> - -<p>Anna wore a pink dressing-gown of soft wool, -with a low-cut sailor's collar and monk's-sleeves, -so that her throat and wrists, round and pale with -the warm pallor of ivory, were left uncovered. -Her hair was drawn up in a rich mass on the top -of her head, and confined by two or three pins of -yellow tortoise-shell. Her black eyes were radiant -with youth and love.</p> - -<p>She opened the door of her room.</p> - -<p>She had a little clock in a case of blue velvet -lightly ornamented with silver; Cesare had given -it to her during their honeymoon, and she always -kept it by her. She looked at this, and saw that -it was already eleven. The April sunshine poured -merrily into the room, brightening the light colours -of the upholsteries, touching with fire her bronze -jewel-case, her hanging lamp of ancient Venetian -wrought iron, and the silver frame of her looking-glass, -and giving life to the blue forget-me-nots on -the white ground of her carpet.</p> - -<p>It was eleven. And from the other end of the -apartment (where, with Stella Martini she occupied -two or three rooms) Laura had sent to ask at what -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -hour they were to start for the Campo di Marte. -Anna had told the servant to answer that they -would start soon after noon, and that she was -getting ready.</p> - -<p>For a moment she stood still in the middle of -her room, undecided whether or not to move in -the direction that her feet seemed inclined to take -of their own will—pretty little feet, in black slippers -embroidered with pearls.</p> - -<p>Then she opened the door.</p> - -<p>A short passage separated her room from her -husband's. Her husband's room had a second -door, letting into a small hall, whence he could -leave the house without Anna's knowing it, without -her hearing so much as a footstep.</p> - -<p>She crossed the passage slowly, and leaned -against the door, not to listen, but as if she lacked -courage to knock. At last, very softly, she gave -two quick raps with her knuckles.</p> - -<p>There was a minute of silence.</p> - -<p>She would never have dared to knock a second -time, already penitent for having ventured to disturb -her lord and master.</p> - -<p>A cold quiet voice from within inquired, "Who -is it?"</p> - -<p>"It's I, Cesare," she said, bending down, as if -to send the words through the keyhole.</p> - -<p>"Wait a moment, please."</p> - -<p>Patiently, with her bejewelled hand on the knob, -and the train of her pink dressing-gown heaped -about her feet, she waited. He never allowed her -to come in at once, when she knocked at his door, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -he seemed to take a pleasure in prolonging and -subduing her impatience.</p> - -<p>Presently he opened the door. He was already -dressed for the Campo di Marte, in the appropriate -costume of a lover of horse-racing.</p> - -<p>"Ah, my dear lady," he said, bowing with that -fine gallantry which he always showed to women, -"aren't you dressed yet?"</p> - -<p>And as he spoke he looked at her with admiring -eyes. She was so young and fresh, and living, -with her beautiful round throat, her flower-like -arms issuing from her wide monk's sleeves, and -her tiny feet in their black slippers, that he took -her hand, drew her to him, and kissed her on the -lips. A single kiss; but her eyes lightened softly, -and her red lips remained parted.</p> - -<p>He stretched himself in an easy-chair, near -his writing-desk, and puffed a cigarette. All the -solid and simple yet elegant furniture of the -big room which he occupied, was impregnated -with that odour of tobacco, which solitary -smokers create round themselves like an atmosphere.</p> - -<p>Anna sat down, balancing herself on the arm of -a chair covered with Spanish leather. One of her -feet played with the train of her gown. She -looked about, marvelling as she always did, at the -vast room a little bleak with its olive plush, its -arms, its bookcase, its handful of books in brown -bindings, and here and there a bit of carved ivory -or a bright-coloured neck-tie, and everywhere the -smell of cigarette-smoke. His bed was long and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -narrow, with a head-piece of carved wood; its -coverlet of old brocade fell to the floor in folds, -and mixed itself with the antique Smyrna carpets -that Cesare Dias had brought home from a journey -in the East. Attached to the brown head-piece -there was a big ivory crucifix, a specimen of Cinquecento -sculpture, yellow with age. The whole -room had a certain severe appearance, as if here -the gallant man of the world gave himself to -solitary and austere reflections, while his conscience -took the upper hand and reminded him of the -seriousness of life.</p> - -<p>The big drawers of his writing desk surely contained -many deep and strange secrets. Anna had -often looked at them with burning, eager eyes, the -eyes of one anxious to penetrate the essence of -things; but she had never approached them, fearing -their mysteries. Only, every day, after breakfast, -when her husband was away, she had put a -bunch of fresh, fragrant flowers in a vase of Satsuma, -whose yellow surface was crossed by threads -of gold, and placed them on the dark old desk, -which thereby gained a quality of youth and -poetry. He treated the flowers with characteristic -indifference. Now and then he would wear one -of them in his button-hole; oftener he seemed unconscious -of their existence. For a week at a -time jonquils would follow violets and roses would -take the place of mignonette in the Satsuma vase, -but Cesare would not deign to give them a look. -This morning, though, he had a tea-rose bud in his -button-hole, a slightly faded one that he had -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -plucked from the accustomed nosegay; and Anna -smiled at seeing it there.</p> - -<p>"At what time are we going to the races?" she -asked, remembering the business that had brought -her to his room.</p> - -<p>"In about an hour," he answered, looking up -from a memorandum-book in which he was setting -down certain figures with a pencil.</p> - -<p>"You are coming with us, aren't you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. And yet—we shall look like a Noah's -ark. Perhaps I'd better go with Giulio on the -four-in-hand."</p> - -<p>"No, no; come with us. When we are there -you can go where you like."</p> - -<p>"Naturally," he said, making another entry in -his note-book.</p> - -<p>She looked at him with shining eyes; but he -continued his calculations, and paid her no attention. -Only presently he asked:</p> - -<p>"Aren't you going to dress?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes," she answered softly.</p> - -<p>And slowly she went away.</p> - -<p>While her maid was helping her to put on her -English costume of nut-coloured wool, she was -wondering whether her husband would like it; she -never dared to ask him what his tastes were in -such matters; she tried to divine them. Before -dressing, she secured round her throat by a chain -an antique silver reliquary, which enclosed, however, -instead of the relics of a saint, the only love -letters that he had ever written to her, two little -notes that had given her unspeakable pain when -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -she had received them. And as she moved about -her room at her toilet, she cast repeated glances at -his portrait, which hung over her writing-table. -Round her right arm she wore six little golden -bracelets with pearls suspended from them; and -graven upon each bracelet was one letter of his -name, Cesare. Her right hand gleamed with many -rings set with precious stones; but on her left -hand her wedding-ring shone alone.</p> - -<p>When she had adjusted her veil over her English -felt hat, trimmed with swallows' wings, she -looked at herself in the glass, and hesitated. She -was afraid she wouldn't please him; her dress was -too simple; it was an ordinary morning street -costume.</p> - -<p>Suddenly the door opened, and Laura appeared. -As usual, she wore white, a frock of soft white -wool, exquisitely delicate and graceful. Her hat -was covered with white feathers, that waved with -every breath of air. And in her hands she held a -bunch of beautiful fresh tea-roses.</p> - -<p>"Oh, how pretty you are!" cried Anna. "And -who gave you those lovely roses?"</p> - -<p>"Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Give me one—give me one." And she put -out her hand.</p> - -<p>She put it into her button-hole, inexpressibly -happy to possess a flower that he had brought to -the house and presented to her sister.</p> - -<p>"When did you see Cesare?" she asked, taking -up her purse, across which <em>Anna Dias</em> was stamped, -and her sunshade.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I haven't seen him. He sent these flowers to -my room."</p> - -<p>"How kind he is."</p> - -<p>"Very kind," repeated her sister, like an echo.</p> - -<p>They went into the drawing-room and waited -for Cesare. He came presently, drawing on his -gloves. He was somewhat annoyed at having to -go to the races with his family—he who had -hitherto always gone as a bachelor, on a friend's -four-in-hand, or alone in his own phæton. His bad -humour was only partially concealed.</p> - -<p>"Ah, here is the charming Minerva!" he cried, -perceiving Laura. "How smart we are! A -proper spring toilet, indeed. Good, good! Well, -let's be off."</p> - -<p>Anna had hoped for a word from him too, but -she got none. Cesare had seen her dress of nut-coloured -wool, and he deemed it unworthy of -remark. For a moment all the beauty of the -April day was extinguished, and she descended -the stairs with heavy steps. But out of doors the -air was full of light and gaiety; the streets were -crowded with carriages and with pedestrians; on -every balcony there were ladies in light colours, -with red parasols; and a million scintillating -atoms danced in every ray of sunshine. Anna -told herself she must bear in patience the consequences -of the error she had made in putting on -that ugly brown frock. Laura's face was lovely as -a rose under her white hat; and Anna rejoiced in -her sister's beauty, and in the admiring glances -that everybody gave her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It's going to be beastly hot," said Cesare, as -they drove into the Toledo, where a crowd had -gathered to watch the procession of carriages.</p> - -<p>"The Grand Stand will be covered. We'll find -a good place," said Anna.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm to leave you when we get there," he -reminded her. He was determined to put an end -to this family scene as soon as he could. "I must -leave a clear field for Laura's adorers. I give -place to them because I am old."</p> - -<p>Laura smiled.</p> - -<p>"So, Anna, I'll leave you to your maternal -duties. I recommend you to keep an especial -eye upon Luigi Caracciolo—upon him in particular."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" Anna asked absently.</p> - -<p>"Nothing, dear."</p> - -<p>"I thought——" she began, without finishing -her sentence.</p> - -<p>Bows and smiles and words of greeting were -reaching them from every side. They passed or -overtook numberless people whom they knew, -some in carriages, some on foot. Cesare was -inwardly mortified by the conjugal exhibition of -himself that he was obliged to make, and looked -with secret envy at his bachelor friends.</p> - -<p>But his regret was sharpest when a handsome -four-in-hand dashed past, with Giulio Carafa on -the box and the Contessa d'Alemagna beside -him. That dark, vivacious, blue-eyed lady wore -a costume of pale yellow silk, and a broad straw -hat trimmed with cream-coloured feathers. She -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -carried a bunch of lilac in her hands, lilac that -lives but a single day in our ardent climate, and -is rich with intoxicating fragrance. All the men -on Carafa's coach bowed to Dias, and the Contessa -d'Alemagna smiled upon him and waved her -flowers; and his heart was bitten by a great desire -to be there, with them, instead of here, in this stupid -domestic party.</p> - -<p>He was silent; and Anna's eyes filled with -tears, for she understood what his silence meant. -At the sight of her tears his irritation increased.</p> - -<p>"Well, what is it?" he asked, looking at her -with his dominating coldness.</p> - -<p>"Nothing," she said, turning her head away, to -hide her emotion.</p> - -<p>That question and answer were equivalent to one -of the long and stormy discussions that are usual -between husbands and wives. Between them such -discussions never took place. Their life was regulated -according to the compact they had made on -that moonlit night at Sorrento; she realised now -that what had then seemed to her a way of being -saved was only a way of dying more slowly; but -he had kept his word, and she must keep hers. -He had married her; she must not reproach him. -Only sometimes her sorrow appeared too plainly; -then he never failed to find a word or a glance to -remind her of her promise.</p> - -<p>To-day, for the thousandth time, he regretted the -sacrifice he had made, and cursed his generosity.</p> - -<p>The whole distance from the Toledo to the -Campo di Marte was passed in silence. As they -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -approached the Reclusorio, Luigi Caracciolo drove -by them with his tandem. He bowed cordially to -them. Anna dropped her eyes; Laura smiled -upon him.</p> - -<p>"What a handsome fellow!" exclaimed Dias, -with the sincere admiration of one man of the -world for another.</p> - -<p>"Very handsome," said Laura, who was accustomed -to speak her girlish mind with sufficient -freedom.</p> - -<p>"He pleases you, eh?" inquired Cesare, with a -smile.</p> - -<p>"He pleases me," she said, with her habitual -freedom and her habitual indifference.</p> - -<p>"It's a pity he was never able to take Anna's -fancy," Cesare added, with enigmatical irony.</p> - -<p>"I hate handsome youths," said Anna, proudly.</p> - -<p>"You wouldn't be the impetuous woman that -you are, my dear, if you didn't hate everything -that other people like. We've got a creature of -passion in the family, Laura," he said, with a frank -expression of scorn.</p> - -<p>"Yes," assented the cruel sister.</p> - -<p>Anna smiled faintly in disdain. Again the -beauty of the day was extinguished for her; the -warm April afternoon was like a dark winter's -evening.</p> - -<p>The rose that Laura had given her had fallen -to pieces, shedding its petals on the carriage floor. -Anna would have liked to gather them all up and -preserve them. The most she could do, however, -was to take a single one that lay in her lap, and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -put it into the opening of her glove, against the -palm of her hand.</p> - -<p>At the entrance of the racing-grounds they -met the Contessa d'Alemagna again. She smiled -graciously upon Anna and Laura. Anna tried to -smile in return; Laura bowed coldly.</p> - -<p>"Don't you like the Contessa d'Alemagna?" -asked Cesare, as he conducted his wife and sister-in-law -to their places in the members' stand.</p> - -<p>"No," said Laura.</p> - -<p>"You're wrong," said he.</p> - -<p>"That may be. But she's antipathetic to me."</p> - -<p>"I like her," said Anna, feebly.</p> - -<p>Cesare found places for them, and gave them -each an opera-glass. Then he stood up and said -to Anna:</p> - -<p>"You will be all right here?"</p> - -<p>"Perfectly."</p> - -<p>"Nothing I can do for you?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing."</p> - -<p>"I'll come back for the third race. I'm going -now to bet. Good-bye."</p> - -<p>And he went off with the light step of a liberated -man. Anna watched him as he crossed the turf -towards the weighing-stand.</p> - -<p>She was surrounded by acquaintances, and they -were all talking together. Being a bride, she -received a good deal of attention; Dias was -popular, and his popularity reflected itself upon -her. Besides, people found her interesting, with -her black, passionate eyes, the pure oval of her -face, and her fresh red lips.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span></p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo came up to where the sisters -were seated.</p> - -<p>"Cesare has deserted you?" he asked, jestingly.</p> - -<p>"He's gone to bet. He'll soon come back," -said Anna.</p> - -<p>"He's betting with the Contessa d'Alemagna," -suggested Laura, with one of those perverse smiles -which contrasted so oddly with the purity of her -face.</p> - -<p>"Then he'll not come back so soon," said Luigi, -sitting down.</p> - -<p>"Have you never seen the races before?" he -asked.</p> - -<p>"No, I have never seen them," said Anna.</p> - -<p>"It's rather a tiresome sight," said he, pulling his -blonde moustaches.</p> - -<p>"It's interesting to see the people," said Anna.</p> - -<p>"It's the crowd that always gives its interest to -a scene," said he, with an intonation of profound -thought.</p> - -<p>Laura was looking through her opera-glass. -"There's Cesare," she cried suddenly.</p> - -<p>Cesare was walking and talking with the -beautiful Contessa d'Alemagna, and two other -men, who walked in front of them, occasionally -turned and took part in the conversation. As he -passed his wife and sister, he looked up and -bowed. Anna responded, smiling, but her smile -was a forced and weary one.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo, feigning not to have noticed -this incident, said to her: "That's a charming -dress you're wearing. It's an inspiration."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do you like it?" she asked, with a thankful -look.</p> - -<p>"Yes. I admire these English fashions. I -think our women are wrong to go to a horse-race -dressed as if for a garden-party. It's not -smart."</p> - -<p>He took her sunshade and toyed with it, -reading the inscription, engraved on its silver -handle.</p> - -<p>"'<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Attendre pour atteindre.</i>'<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> Is that your motto?" -he inquired.</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Have you never had another?"</p> - -<p>"Never."</p> - -<p>"It's a wise one," he remarked. "It's a fact -that everything comes at last to those who know -how to wait."</p> - -<p>"Alas! not everything, not everything," she -murmured, sadly.</p> - -<p>There was a burst of applause from the multitude. -The second race was over, and the favourite -had won, a Naples-bred horse. People crowded -about the bookmakers, to receive the value of -their bets.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps Cesare has won," said Laura. "He -was always talking about <cite>Amarilli</cite>."</p> - -<p>"Cesare always wins," said Luigi.</p> - -<p>"He is not named Cesare<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> for nothing," said -Anna, proudly.</p> - -<p>"And like the great Julius all his victories were -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -won after he had turned forty—especially those in -Germany."<a name="FNanchor_C_3" id="FNanchor_C_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_C_3" class="fnanchor">[C]</a></p> - -<p>But Anna did not hear this malicious pleasantry. -She was thinking of other things.</p> - -<p>By and by her husband came to her.</p> - -<p>"Are you enjoying it, Anna?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I am enjoying it."</p> - -<p>"And you, Laura?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, immensely," she answered, coldly.</p> - -<p>"Would you like to see the weighing ground?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she said, taking her shawl and her sunshade.</p> - -<p>"I can't take <em>you</em>," said Cesare to his wife, who -was gazing imploringly at him. "We should look -ridiculous."</p> - -<p>But she did not appear resigned.</p> - -<p>"We should be ridiculous," he repeated imperiously. -"Thank goodness, we're not perpetually -on our wedding journey."</p> - -<p>They went away, leaving her with a pain in -her heart which she felt was killing her. She -half closed her eyes, and only one idea was clear -in the sorrowful confusion of her mind—that her -husband was right. She had broken their agreement; -she had promised never to entreat him, -never to reproach him. It was weak and wicked -of her, she told herself, to have consented to such -an agreement—a compact by which her love, -her pride, and her dignity were alike bound to -suffer. She had made another great mistake -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -when she did that, and this time an irreparable -mistake.</p> - -<p>"Ah, you are alone?" said Luigi Caracciolo, -coming up again.</p> - -<p>"Alone."</p> - -<p>"Something is troubling you. What is it?"</p> - -<p>"I am bored; and a person who is bored bores -others."</p> - -<p>"Let us bore ourselves together, Signora Dias. -That will be diverting. I have always wished to -bore myself with you, you know."</p> - -<p>She shook her head, to forbid his referring to -the past.</p> - -<p>"Ah, you won't consent? You're very cruel."</p> - -<p>She put her opera-glass to her eyes, and looked -off across the course.</p> - -<p>"If you're going to treat me as badly as this, -you'd better send me away," he said, with some -feeling.</p> - -<p>"The stand is free to all the world," she -answered, tormented by the thought that if her -husband should come back, he might imagine that -she was glad to talk with Caracciolo.</p> - -<p>"You are a Domitian in woman's clothes," he -cried. "Ah, you women! When you don't like -a man you destroy him straightway."</p> - -<p>She did not hear him; or, hearing, she did not -understand.</p> - -<p>"You are too high up for me," he went on. -"To descend to my level would be impossible for -you and unworthy of you. It's equally impossible -for me to rise to yours."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You are quite mistaken. I'm anything rather -than a superior being. I'm a human earthly -woman, like all others—more than others."</p> - -<p>"Then why do you suffer?"</p> - -<p>"Because love is very bitter."</p> - -<p>"What love?"</p> - -<p>"All love. It is bitterer than aloes, bitterer -than gall, bitter in life and in death."</p> - -<p>There was another outburst of applause, and the -crowd began to move. The races of the first day -were over.</p> - -<p>Anna looked for her husband. He appeared -presently, with Laura on his arm.</p> - -<p>"You leave your wife to the most melancholy -solitude," said Caracciolo, laughing.</p> - -<p>"I was sure you would keep her company, -you're such a true friend to me," laughed -Cesare.</p> - -<p>Caracciolo gave his arm to Anna.</p> - -<p>"In any case, it wasn't to render you a service," -said Luigi.</p> - -<p>"I know your fidelity," said Dias.</p> - -<p>"You are my master."</p> - -<p>Neither of the ladies spoke. Anna gave herself -up to the happiness of having recovered her -husband, of going away with him, of taking him -home. He seemed excited and pleased, as if he -had enjoyed the events of the afternoon without -stopping to analyse their frivolity and emptiness. -He had amused himself in his usual way, forgetting -for the moment the subtle but constant annoyance -of his marriage. He was merry, and he -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -showed his merriment by joking with Caracciolo, -with Laura, even with his wife.</p> - -<p>Anna was very happy. The long day had tired -her. But now she felt the warmth and comfort of -his presence, and that compensated her for her -hours of abandonment. They had some difficulty -finding their carriage, but Cesare was not impatient. -Caracciolo, meanwhile, was looking for -his own tranquilly, never for a moment neglecting -his chivalric duties.</p> - -<p>When their carriage was discovered, the two -men helped the ladies into it; and Cesare, standing -beside it, disposed of their shawls and their -opera-glasses with the carefulness of a model -husband, at the same time exchanging a passing -word or two with Caracciolo.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Cesare closed the carriage-door, and -said to the coachman—"Home."</p> - -<p>"Aren't you coming with us?" Anna asked in -a low voice.</p> - -<p>"No. There's a place for me on Giulio Carafa's -four-in-hand. I shall get to Naples sooner than -you will. The four-in-hand can go outside the -line."</p> - -<p>"Four-in-hands are very amusing," said Caracciolo, -shaking hands with the two women.</p> - -<p>"Shall we have a late dinner?" asked Anna.</p> - -<p>"Don't wait dinner for me. I am going to dine -at the Contessa d'Alemagna's, with Giulio Carafa -and Marco Paliano."</p> - -<p>"Very well," said Anna.</p> - -<p>She watched Cesare and Luigi as they moved -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -away, puffing their cigarettes. Then she said to -the coachman, "Drive home."</p> - -<p>During the long drive the sisters scarcely spoke. -They were accustomed to respect each other's hours -of silence. A soft breeze was blowing from the -north. They were both a little pale. Perhaps it -was the spectacle of the return from the Campo di -Marte, which made them thoughtful; the many -carriages, full of people who bore on their faces -the signs of happiness due to a fine day of sunshine, -passed in the open air, amid the thousand -flattering coquetries of love and fancy; the -beautiful women, wrapped in their cloaks; the -sort of spiritual intoxication that glowed in the -eyes of everybody.</p> - -<p>The streets were lined by an immense crowd of -shop-keepers and working-people, who made a -holiday pleasure of watching the stream of -carriages; and another crowd looked down from -the balconies of the houses.</p> - -<p>Presently Anna leaned forward and took her -shawl and wrapped it round her shoulders.</p> - -<p>"Are you cold?" asked Laura, helping her.</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>Laura also put on her shawl; she, too, was -cold.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo's tandem passed them. Anna -did not see him. Laura bowed.</p> - -<p>When they had reached the Piazza San Ferdinando, -Anna asked: "Would you like to drive -about a little?"</p> - -<p>"No, let us go home."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> - -<p>And when they were in the house, "We must -go in to dinner," Laura said.</p> - -<p>"I'm not going to dine. I have a headache," -said Anna.</p> - -<p>At last she was alone. In her own room she -threw aside her hat and veil, her sunshade, her -purse, her pocket-handkerchief; she fell into an -arm-chair, and was shaken by a storm of sobs and -tears.</p> - -<p>From above her little writing-table Cesare's -portrait seemed to smile upon the flowers that -were placed under it.</p> - -<p>She raised her eyes, and looked at his beautiful -and noble face, which appeared to glow with love -and life. A great impulse of passion rose in her -heart; she took the portrait and kissed it, and -bathed it in her tears, murmuring, "my love, my -love, why do you treat me like this? Ah, I can -only love you, love you; and you are killing me."</p> - -<p>Hours passed unnoticed by her. Some one came -to her door and asked whether she wished for a -lamp; she answered, "No."</p> - -<p>By-and-bye she saw a white figure standing -before her. She recognised Laura. And she -saw that Laura was weeping. She had never -seen her weep before.</p> - -<p>"You are crying. What are you crying for?" -she asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes," answered Laura, vaguely, with a gesture.</p> - -<p>And they wept together.</p> - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> "Wait to win." In French in the original.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> Cæsar.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_C_3" id="Footnote_C_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_C_3"><span class="label">[C]</span></a> Alemagna. A punning reference to the Contessa.</p></div></div> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>II.</h2> - -<p>Cesare Dias came home one day towards six -o'clock, in great good humour. At dinner he -found everything excellent, though it was his -habit to find everything bad. He ate with a -hearty appetite, and told countless amusing -stories, of the sort that he reserved for his agreeable -moments. He joked with Laura, and with -Anna; he even complimented his wife upon her -dress, a new one that she had to-day put on for -the first time. He succeeded in communicating -his gaiety to the two women. Anna looked at -him with meek and tender eyes; and as often as -he smiled she smiled too.</p> - -<p>Laura, it is true, spoke little, but in her face -shone that expression of vivacity, of animation, -which had characterised it for some time past. -She agreed with everything Cesare said, bowing -her head.</p> - -<p>After dinner they all passed into Anna's drawing-room. -It was her evening at home; and -noticing that there were flowers in all the vases—it -was in June, just a year after their talk at -Sorrento—and seeing the silver samovar on the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -table, Cesare asked: "Are you expecting people -to-night, Anna?"</p> - -<p>"A few. Perhaps no one will come."</p> - -<p>"Ah, that's why you've got yourself up so -smartly."</p> - -<p>"Did you fancy it was for you, that she had put -on her new frock, Cesare?" Laura asked, jestingly.</p> - -<p>"I was presumptuous enough to do so; and -all presumptions are delusions. I'll bet that Luigi -Caracciolo is coming—the ever faithful one."</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I don't know," said Anna, indifferently.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you hypocrite, Anna!" laughed Laura.</p> - -<p>"Hypocrite, hypocrite!" repeated Cesare, also -laughing. "Come, I'll warrant that the obstinate -fidelity of Caracciolo has at last made an impression. -Admirable! He's been in love with -you for a hundred years."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Cesare, don't joke about such subjects," -Anna begged, in pain.</p> - -<p>"You see, Laura, she is troubled."</p> - -<p>"She's troubled, it's true," affirmed Laura.</p> - -<p>"You're both of you heartless," Anna murmured.</p> - -<p>Cesare opened his cigarette case, and playfully -offered a cigarette to each of the ladies.</p> - -<p>"I don't smoke," said Laura.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you learn to?"</p> - -<p>"Smoke is bad for the teeth;" and she showed -her own, shining like those of Beatrice in the tale -by Edgar Poe.</p> - -<p>"You're right, fair Minerva. Will you smoke, -Anna?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I don't smoke, either," she said, with a soft -smile.</p> - -<p>"You ought to learn. It would be becoming -to you. You're dark, you have the Spanish type, -and a <i lang="es" xml:lang="es">papelito</i><a name="FNanchor_D_4" id="FNanchor_D_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_D_4" class="fnanchor">[D]</a> would complete your charm."</p> - -<p>"I will learn, Cesare," she assented.</p> - -<p>"And what's more, smoke calms the nerves. -You can't imagine the soothing effect it has. -Nothing is better to relieve our little sorrows."</p> - -<p>"Give me a cigarette, then," she said at once.</p> - -<p>"Ah, you have little sorrows?"</p> - -<p>"Who knows!" she sighed, putting aside her -cigarette.</p> - -<p>"You have no little sorrows, Laura?" asked -Cesare.</p> - -<p>"Neither little ones nor big ones."</p> - -<p>"Who can boast of having never wept?" said -Anna, with a melancholy accent.</p> - -<p>"If we become sentimental, I shall take myself -off," said Cesare.</p> - -<p>"No, no, don't go away," Anna prayed him.</p> - -<p>"I would remind you that we've got to pass our -whole life-time together," said he, ironically, knocking -off the ash of his cigarette.</p> - -<p>"All our life-time, and more beyond it," said -Anna, pensively.</p> - -<p>"And more beyond! It's a grave affair. I -will think of it while I am dressing, this evening."</p> - -<p>"Where are you going?"</p> - -<p>"To take a walk," he answered, rising.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p> -<p>"Why don't you stay here?" she ventured -to ask.</p> - -<p>"I can't. I'm obliged to go out."</p> - -<p>"Come home early, won't you?"</p> - -<p>"Early—yes," he consented, after a short -hesitation.</p> - -<p>"I'll wait for you, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes. Good-night."</p> - -<p>He went off.</p> - -<p>Laura, according to her recent habit, had -listened to this dialogue with her eyes half -closed, and biting her lips; she said nothing. -Whenever her sister and her brother-in-law exchanged -a few affectionate words (and, indeed, -Cesare did no more than respond to the affection -of Anna), she assumed the countenance of a -statue, which neither feels nor hears nor sees; or -else, she got up and left the room noiselessly. -Often Anna surprised on Laura's face a cynical -smile that appeared the antithesis of its extreme -purity, the irony of an icy virgin who is aware of -the falsity and hollowness of love.</p> - -<p>This evening, when Cesare had left them, the -sisters remained together for a few minutes. But -apparently both their minds were absorbed in deep -thought; at any rate they could not keep up a -conversation. Anna, in her lilac-coloured frock, -lay in an easy-chair, leaning her head on her -hands, over which her black hair seemed like a -warrior's helmet. Laura was pulling and playing -with the fringe of her white dress.</p> - -<p>"I'm going; good night," she said suddenly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why do you go, Laura?" asked Anna, issuing -from her reverie.</p> - -<p>"There's no use staying. People will be arriving."</p> - -<p>"But stay for that very reason. You will help -me to endure their visits."</p> - -<p>"Oh, that's a task above my strength," said the -blonde and beautiful Minerva. "Then, anyhow, -it's you they come to see, my dear."</p> - -<p>"You'll be married some day yourself," said -Anna, laughing.</p> - -<p>She was still in a pleasant mood—a reflection -of Cesare's gaiety; and then he had promised to -come home early.</p> - -<p>"Who knows! Good night," and Laura rose -to go away.</p> - -<p>"But what are you going to do?"</p> - -<p>"Read a little; then sleep."</p> - -<p>"What are you reading?"</p> - -<p>"'<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le mot de l'énigme</i>,'<a name="FNanchor_E_5" id="FNanchor_E_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_E_5" class="fnanchor">[E]</a> by Madame Pauline -Craven."</p> - -<p>"A mystical romance? Do you want to become -a nun?"</p> - -<p>"Who knows! Good night."</p> - -<p>Anna herself took up a book after Laura's -departure. It was <cite>Adolphe</cite>, by Benjamin Constant; -she had found it one day on her -husband's writing-desk. In its cool yet ardent -pages one feels the charm of a truthful story, -surging up from the heart in a single, vibrant -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -cry of pain. Anna had read it two or three times; -now she began it again, absent-mindedly. But -she did not read long. A few callers came; the -Marchesa Scibilia, her relative, accompanied by -Gaetano Althan, who always liked to go about with -old ladies; Commander Gabriele Mari, a man of -seventy; and then the Prince of Gioiosa, a handsome, -witty, and intelligent Calabrian.</p> - -<p>The conversation, of course, was a mixture of -frivolity and seriousness, as conversations are apt -to be in a small gathering like the present, where -nobody cares to appear too much in earnest, and -everybody tries to speak in paradoxes.</p> - -<p>The Prince di Gioiosa was the last to leave; it -was then past eleven.</p> - -<p>"No one else will come," she thought.</p> - -<p>But she was mistaken. Acquaintances passing -in the street, and seeing her windows alight, came -up to pay their respects. When the last of these -had gone, "It is late; no one else will come," she -thought again.</p> - -<p>But again she was mistaken. The servant -announced Luigi Caracciolo; and the handsome -young fellow entered, with that English correctness -of bearing which somewhat tempered the -vivacity of his blonde youthfulness. He was in -evening dress, and wore a spray of lilies of the -valley in his button-hole.</p> - -<p>Anna gave him her hand amicably. Her rings -glittered in the lamplight.</p> - -<p>"Starry hand," he said, bowing, and pressing it -softly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Where do you come from?" she asked, with -that polite curiosity which implies no real interest.</p> - -<p>"From the opera," he said, seating himself -beside her.</p> - -<p>"What were they giving?"</p> - -<p>"'The Huguenots'—always the same."</p> - -<p>"It is always beautiful."</p> - -<p>"Do you remember?" he asked with a tender, -caressing voice. "They were singing 'The Huguenots' -on the evening when I was introduced to -you."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes; I remember that evening," she said, -with sudden melancholy.</p> - -<p>"How horribly I displeased you that night, -didn't I? The only thing to approach it was the -tremendously delightful impression you made on -me."</p> - -<p>"What nonsense!" she protested kindly.</p> - -<p>"And your first impression of me has never -changed—confess it," he said.</p> - -<p>"Even if that were true, it wouldn't make you -very unhappy."</p> - -<p>"What can you know about that? You beautiful -women, admired and loved—what do you -know?"</p> - -<p>"You're right. Indeed, we know nothing."</p> - -<p>But he saw that her mind was away in a land -of dreams, far from him. He felt all at once the -distance that divided them.</p> - -<p>"When you come back from your travels let me -know, that I may welcome you," he said, with his -smooth, caressing voice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What travels?"</p> - -<p>"Ah! If I knew! If I knew where your -thoughts are wandering while I talk to you, I -could go with you, I could follow you in your -fantasies. Instead, I speak, and you don't listen -to me. I say serious things to you in a jesting -tone, and you understand neither the seriousness -nor the joke. You leave me here alone, whilst you -roam—who knows where? And I, a humble -mortal, without visions, without imagination, I can -only wait for your return, my dear lady."</p> - -<p>If, indeed, there was a certain poetic quality in -what he said, there was a deeper poetry still in -the tenderness and sweetness of his voice. He sat -in front of her, gazing into her face, as if he could -not tear himself from that contemplation. She -sometimes lowered her eyes, sometimes turned -them away, sometimes fixed them upon a page -of <cite>Adolphe</cite>, which she had kept in her hands. If -his gaze embarrassed her, however, his soft voice -seemed to calm her nerves. She listened to it, -scarcely understanding his words, as one listens to -a vague pleasant music.</p> - -<p>"Doesn't it bore you to wait?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"I am never bored here. When I have this -lovely sight before my eyes."</p> - -<p>"What sight?" she inquired, ingenuously.</p> - -<p>"Your person, my dear lady."</p> - -<p>"But you can't always be looking at me," she -said, laughing, trying to turn the conversation to a -jest.</p> - -<p>"That's a fatal misfortune, as they say in novels. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -I should like to pass my whole life near to you. -Instead, I'm obliged to pass it among a lot of -people who are utterly indifferent to me. A great -misfortune!"</p> - -<p>"It's not your fault," she said, with a faint -smile.</p> - -<p>"It certainly isn't. But that doesn't console -me. Shall we try it—passing our lives together? -One can overcome misfortunes. Our whole lives—that -will mean many years."</p> - -<p>"But I am married," she said, feeling that the -talk was becoming dangerous.</p> - -<p>"Oh, that's nothing," he cried emphatically.</p> - -<p>"Caracciolo, I believe you've found the means -to see me no more. What do you want from me?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing, dear lady, nothing," he answered, -with genuine grief in his face and voice.</p> - -<p>"Then you ought not to risk destroying one of -your friendships. What would Cesare have said -if he had heard you for the last half hour?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, nothing. He couldn't have heard me, -you know, because he's never here."</p> - -<p>"Sometimes he is," she said, with sudden emotion.</p> - -<p>"Never, never. Don't tell pious fibs."</p> - -<p>"He's always here."</p> - -<p>"In your heart. I know it. It's an agreeable -home for him, the more so because he can find -others of the same sort wherever he goes."</p> - -<p>"What are you saying?"</p> - -<p>"One of my usual vulgarities. I'm speaking -ill of your husband."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Then be quiet."</p> - -<p>But to soften the severity of this command, she -offered him a box of cigarettes.</p> - -<p>"Thanks for your charity," he said.</p> - -<p>And he began to smoke, looking at one of her -slippers of lilac satin embroidered with silver, -which escaped from beneath her train. She sat -with her elbow on the table, thinking. It was -midnight. In a few minutes Caracciolo would -be gone; and Cesare couldn't delay much longer -about coming home.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo seemed to divine her thoughts.</p> - -<p>"After this cigarette, I will leave you. I'm -afraid I've given you no great idea of my wit."</p> - -<p>"I detest witty men."</p> - -<p>"Small harm! I hope you believe, though, -that I have a heart."</p> - -<p>"I believe it."</p> - -<p>"All the better. One day or another you will -remember what I have said to you this evening, -and understand it."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps," she said, vaguely.</p> - -<p>"You had a very happy inspiration, to dress in -lilac. It's such a tender colour. That's the tint -one sees in the sunsets at Venice. Have you -ever been at Venice?"</p> - -<p>"Never."</p> - -<p>"That's a pity. It's a place full of soft tears. -One can make a provision of them there, to last a -life-time. Trifling loves become deep at Venice, -and deep loves become indestructible. Good-night."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Good-night."</p> - -<p>She gave him her hand, like a white flower -issuing from the satin of her sleeve. He touched -it lightly with his lips, and went away.</p> - -<p>Not for a moment during her conversation with -Luigi Caracciolo had her husband been absent -from Anna's mind. And all that the young man -said, which constantly implied if it did not directly -mention love, had but intensified her one eternal -thought.</p> - -<p>It was now half-past twelve. She rose and -rang the bell; and her maid appeared.</p> - -<p>They left the drawing-room and went into -Anna's bedroom, which was lighted by a big -lamp with a shade of pink silk.</p> - -<p>Her maid helped her to undress, thinking that -she was going to bed; but presently Anna asked -for her tea-gown of cream-coloured crape, and put -it on, as if she meant to sit up. She had loosened -her hair, and it fell down her back in a single rich -black tress.</p> - -<p>The maid asked if she might go to bed. Anna -said, "Yes." Cesare had given orders that no -servant should ever sit up for him; he had a -curiously wrought little key, a master-key, which -he wore on his watch-chain, and which opened -every door in his house. Thus he could come in -at any hour of the night he liked, without being -seen or heard. The maid went softly away, -closing the door behind her.</p> - -<p>Anna sat down in an easy chair, beside her -bed. She still had the volume of <cite>Adolphe</cite> in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -her hand. She sat still there, while she heard -the servant moving about the apartment, shutting -the windows. Then all was silent.</p> - -<p>Anna got up, and opened the doors between -her room and her husband's. So she would be -able to hear him when he returned. He could -not delay much longer. He had promised her to -come home early; he knew that she would wait -for him. And, as she had been doing through -the whole evening, but with greater intensity than -ever, she longed for the presence of her loved one. -Was not every thing empty and colourless when -he was away? And this evening he had been -so merry and so kind. His promise resounded in -her soul like a solemn vow. She thrilled with -tremulous emotion. The softness of the spring -night entered into her and exhilarated her.</p> - -<p>She lay back in her easy-chair, with closed -eyes, and dreamed of his coming. She felt an -immense need of him, to have him there beside -her, to hold his hand in hers, to lean her head -upon his shoulder in sweet, deep peace, listening -to the beating of his heart, supported by his arms, -while his breath fell upon her hair, her eyelids, -her lips. A dream of love; vivid and languid, -full of delicate ardour and melancholy desire.</p> - -<p>She surprised herself murmuring his name. -"Cesare, Cesare," she said, trembling with love at -the sound of her own voice.</p> - -<p>Suddenly it seemed to her that she heard a -noise in her husband's room. Then he had -come!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p> - -<p>Swiftly, like a flying shadow, she crossed the -passage, and looked in. Only silence and darkness! -She had been mistaken. She leaned on -the frame of the door, and remained thus for a -long moment.</p> - -<p>Slowly she returned to her own room, thinking -that "early" must mean for a man of late habits -like Cesare two o'clock in the morning. That -was it! He would arrive at two.</p> - -<p>She took up <cite>Adolphe</cite>, thinking to divert herself -with reading, and thus to moderate her -impatience. She opened the book towards the -middle, where the passionate struggle between -Ellenore and Adolphe is shown in all its sorrowful -intensity. And from the dry, precise words, -the hard, effective style, the brief and austere -narrative, which was like the cry of a soul destroyed -by scepticism, Anna derived an impression of -fright. Ah, in her sincere, youthful faith, what a -horror she had of that modern malady which -corrupts the mind, depraves the conscience, and -kills whatever is most noble in the soul! What -could she know, poor, simple, ignorant woman, -whose only belief, whose only law, whose only -hope was love—what could she know of the -spiritual diseases of those who have seen too -much, who have loved too much, who have -squandered the purest treasures of their feelings? -What could she know of the desolating torture of -those souls who can no longer believe in anything, -not even in themselves, and who have lost their -last ideal? She could know nothing; and yet a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -terror assailed her. Perhaps Cesare, her husband, -was like <cite>Adolphe</cite>, who could never more be -happy, who could never more give happiness to -others. She shuddered, and threw the book aside, -in great distress.</p> - -<p>She got up mechanically, and took from a table -a rosary of sandal wood, which a Missionary -Friar had brought from Jerusalem.</p> - -<p>She had never been regular in her devotions; -her imagination was too fervid. But religious -feelings seemed sometimes to sweep in upon her -in great waves of divine love. A child of the -South, she only prayed when moved by some -strong pain, for which she could find no earthly -relief. She forgot to pray when she was happy. -Now she pressed her rosary to her lips, and began -to repeat the long and poetical Litany, which -Domenico de Guzman has dedicated to the Virgin. -Ingenuously enough, she thought that in this way -the time would pass more rapidly, two o'clock -would strike, and Cesare would arrive. But she -endeavoured in vain to fix her mind upon her -orisons; it flew away, before her, to her meeting -with her Beloved; and though her lips pronounced -the words of the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ave</i> and the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pater</i>, their sense -escaped her. Once or twice she paused for a few -minutes, and then went on, confused, beseeching -Heaven's pardon for her slight attention.</p> - -<p>When her rosary was finished, it was two -precisely. Now Cesare would come.</p> - -<p>She could not control her nervousness. She -took her lamp and went into her husband's room: -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> -she placed the lamp on the writing-desk, and -seated herself in one of the leather arm-chairs. -She felt easier here; the austerity of the big -chamber, with its dark furniture, told her that her -husband's soul was above the sterile and frivolous -pleasures in which he had already lost the best -part of the night.</p> - -<p>The air still smelt of cigarette smoke. Here -and there a point of metal gleamed in the lamplight. -On a table lay a pair of gloves; they had -been worn that day, and they retained the form of -his hands. She kissed them, and put them into -the bosom of her gown.</p> - -<p>But where was Cesare?</p> - -<p>She began to pace backwards and forwards, -the train of her dress following her like a white -wave. Why did he not come home? It was late, -very late. There were no balls on for that night; -no social function could detain him till this hour.</p> - -<p>Where was Cesare? Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare, -her dear love, where was he? She passed her hands -over her burning forehead.</p> - -<p>All at once, looking out into the night, she -noticed in the distance the windows of Cesare's -club, brilliantly lighted. Then a sudden peace -came to her. He would be there, playing, talking, -enjoying the company of his friends, forgetful -of the time. It was an old habit of his, and old -habits are so hard to break. She remained at -the window of his room, with her eyes fixed upon -the windows of his club; the light that shone -from them was the pole-star of her heart.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p> - -<p>She opened the window and went out upon the -balcony.</p> - -<p>Presently two men issued from the club-house, -stood for a moment chatting together at the -entrance, and then moved off towards the Chiaia. -Ah, she thought, the company at the Club was -beginning to break up; at last Cesare would -come. At the end of ten minutes, four men came -out together. These also chatted together for a -minute, then separated, two going towards the -Riviera, two entering the Via Vittoria. By-and-by -one man came out alone, and advanced directly -towards Dias' house. This, this surely would -be he.</p> - -<p>The man was looking up, towards the balcony.</p> - -<p>"Good-night, Signora Anna," said the voice of -Luigi Caracciolo.</p> - -<p>"Good-night," she murmured, faint with disappointment.</p> - -<p>Caracciolo had stopped, and was leaning on the -railing, gazing up at her. Anna drew back out of -sight.</p> - -<p>"Good-night, Anna," he repeated, very softly.</p> - -<p>She did not answer.</p> - -<p>Caracciolo went off, slowly, slowly; stopping -now and then to look back.</p> - -<p>She turned her eyes again upon the windows of -the club, but they were quite dark; the lights had -been extinguished.</p> - -<p>So Caracciolo had been the last to leave; and -Cesare was not there!</p> - -<p>She felt terribly cold, all at once. Her teeth -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -chattered. She went back into the room, shivering, -and had scarcely strength enough to shut the -window. She fell upon a chair, exhausted. The -clock struck. It was half-past three.</p> - -<p>And now a hideous suspicion began to torture -her. There were no balls to-night, no receptions, -no functions. The club was shut up. The cafés -were shut up. All talking, eating, drinking, -gambling, were over for the night. The life of -the night was spent. Everybody had gone home -to bed. Then where was Cesare? Cesare, her -husband, was with a woman! And jealousy -began to gnaw her heart. With a woman; that -was certain. The truth burned her soul. He -could be nowhere else than with a woman. -The truth rang in her heart like a trumpet-blast. -Mechanically she put her fingers to her ears to -shut out the words—<em>with a woman, with a -woman</em>.</p> - -<p>But what woman?</p> - -<p>She knew nothing of her husband's secrets, -nothing of his past or present loves.</p> - -<p>She was a mere stranger whom he tolerated, -not a friend, not a confidant. She was a troublesome -bond upon him, an obstacle to his pleasures, -an interference with his habits. No doubt there -were older bonds, stronger ties, that kept him from -her; or it might be the mere force of a passing -fancy. But for what woman, for what woman? -In vain she tried to give the woman a name, a -living form.</p> - -<p>Oh, certainly not a lady, not a woman of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> -honourable rank and reputation; not the Contessa -d'Alemagna.</p> - -<p>Who then? Who then?</p> - -<p>How much time passed, while she sat there, in -a convulsion of tears and sobs, prey to all the -anguish of jealousy?</p> - -<p>The day broke; a greenish, livid light entered -the room.</p> - -<p>The handle of the door turned. Cesare came -in. He was very pale, with dull, weary eyes. -He had a cigarette in his mouth; his lips were -blue. The collar of his overcoat was turned up; -his hands were in his pockets. He looked at -his wife indifferently, coldly, as if he did not -recognise her.</p> - -<p>She rose. Her face was ashen. Her capacity -for feeling was exhausted.</p> - -<p>"What are you doing here?" he asked.</p> - -<p>He threw away his cigarette, and took off his -hat. How old and used up he looked, with his -hair in disorder, his cheeks sunken from lack of -sleep.</p> - -<p>"I was waiting for you," she said.</p> - -<p>"All night?"</p> - -<p>"All night."</p> - -<p>"You have great patience."</p> - -<p>He opened the door.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Anna."</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Cesare."</p> - -<p>And she returned to her own room.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_D_4" id="Footnote_D_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_D_4"><span class="label">[D]</span></a> Spanish in the original.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_E_5" id="Footnote_E_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_E_5"><span class="label">[E]</span></a> The key to the riddle.</p></div></div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>III.</h2> - -<p>About the middle of June, in the first summer of -his marriage, Cesare Dias brought his wife and his -sister-in-law to the Villa Caterina at Sorrento. -He would leave them there, while he went to take -the baths at Vichy. Afterwards he was going to -Saint-Moritz in the Engadine, whither betake -themselves such persons as desire to be cold in -summer, the same who, desiring to be hot in -winter, hibernate at Nice. Anna had secretly -wished to accompany her husband upon this journey, -longing to be alone with him, far from their usual -surroundings; but she was to be left behind.</p> - -<p>Ever since that night when she had sat up till -dawn waiting for him, tormented, disillusioned, -her faith destroyed, her moral strength exhausted, -there had been a coldness between the couple. -Cesare had lost no time in asserting his independence -of her, and had vouchsafed but the vaguest -explanations, saying in general terms that a man -might pass a night out of his house, chatting with -friends or playing cards, for any one of a multitude -of reasons. Anna had listened without -answering. She dreaded above all things having -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -a quarrel with her husband. She closed her eyes -and listened. He flung his explanation at her -with an air of contempt. She was silent but not -satisfied.</p> - -<p>She could never forget the hours of that night, -when, for the first time, she had drained her cup -of bitterness to its dregs, and looked into the -bottom depths of human wickedness. The sweetness -of her love had then been poisoned.</p> - -<p>As for Cesare, he had been exceedingly annoyed -by her waiting for him, which seemed to him an -altogether extravagant manifestation of her fondness. -It annoyed him to have been surprised in -the early morning light looking old and ugly; it -annoyed him to have to explain his absence; and -it annoyed him finally to think that similar scenes -might occur again. Oh, how he loathed these -tragic women and their tragedies! After having -hated them his whole life long, them and their -tears and their vapourings, behold! he had been -trapped into marrying one of them—for his sins; -and his rancour at the inconceivable folly he had -committed vented itself upon Anna. She, sad in -the essence of her soul, humble, disheartened, -understood her husband's feelings; and by means -of her devotion and tenderness sought to procure -his pardon for her offence—the offence of having -waited for him that night! One day, when Anna -had been even more penitent and more affectionate -than usual, he had indeed made some show of -forgiving her, with the pretentious indulgence of a -superior being; she had taken his forgiveness as a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -slave takes a kind word after a beating, smiling -with tears in her eyes, happy that he had not -punished her more heavily for her fault.</p> - -<p>But the truth is, he was a man and not an -angel. He had forgiven her; yet he still wished -to punish her. On no consideration would he take -her with him to Vichy and Saint-Moritz. He gave -her to understand that their wedding-journey was -finished; that it would never do to leave her sister -Laura alone for two months with no other chaperone -than Stella Martini; that it wasn't his wish -to play Joseph Prudhomme, and travel in the bosom -of his family; in short, he gave her to understand -in a thousand ways that he wished to go alone; -and she resigned herself to staying behind in preference -to forcing her company upon him. She -flattered herself, poor thing, that this act of submission, -so hard for her to make, would restore -her to her lord's good graces. He went away, -indeed in great good temper. He seemed rejuvenated. -The idea of the absolute liberty he -was about to enjoy filled him with enthusiasm. -He recommended his ladies (as he jokingly called -the sisters) not to be too nun-like, but to go out, -to receive, to amuse themselves as they wished. -Anna heard this advice, pale with downcast eyes; -Laura listened to it with an odd smile on her lips, -looking straight into her brother-in-law's face. -She too was pale and mute.</p> - -<p>After his departure a great, sad silence seemed -to invade the villa. Each of the sisters was pensive -and reserved; they spoke but little together; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> -they even appeared to avoid each other. For the -rest, the charming youthful serenity of the blonde -Minerva had vanished; her white brow was -clouded with thought. They were in the same -house, but for some time they rarely met.</p> - -<p>Anna wrote to Cesare twice a day; she told -him everything that happened; she opened to him -her every fancy, her every dream; she wrote with -the effusiveness of a passionate woman, who, too -timid to express herself by spoken words, finds her -outlet in letters. Writing, she could tell him how -she loved him, that she was his in body and soul. -Cesare wrote to her once or twice a week, and not -at length; but in each of his notes there would -be, if not a word of love, at least some kindly -phrase; and upon that Anna would live for three -or four days—until his next letter arrived. He -was enjoying himself; he was feeling better; he -would return soon. Sometimes he even expressed -a wish for her presence, that she might share his -pleasure in a landscape or laugh with him at some -original fellow-traveller. He always sent his -remembrances to Laura; and Anna would read -them out to her.</p> - -<p>"Thank you," was all that Laura responded.</p> - -<p>Laura herself wrote a good deal in these days. -What was she writing? And to whom? She sat -at her little desk, shut up in her room, and covered -big sheets of paper with her clear, firm handwriting. -If any one entered, she covered what she -had written with her blotting-paper, and remained -silent, with lowered eyes, toying with her pen. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> -More than once Anna had come in. Thereupon -Laura had gathered up her manuscripts, and -locked them into a drawer, controlling with an -effort the trouble in her face.</p> - -<p>"What are you writing?" Anna asked one day, -overcoming her timidity, and moved by a strange -impulse of curiosity.</p> - -<p>"Nothing that would interest you," the other -answered.</p> - -<p>"How can you say so?" the elder sister protested, -with indulgent tenderness. "Whatever -pleases you or moves you must interest me."</p> - -<p>"Nothing pleases me and nothing moves me," -Laura said, looking down.</p> - -<p>"Not even what you are writing?"</p> - -<p>"Not even what I am writing."</p> - -<p>"How reserved you are! How close you keep -your secrets! But why should you have any?" -Anna insisted affectionately.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Laura, vaguely. She got up and -left the room, carrying her key with her.</p> - -<p>Anna never again referred to what her sister -was writing. It might be letters, it might be a -journal.</p> - -<p>In July, Sorrento filled up with tourists and -holiday folk; and the other villas were occupied -by their owners. The sisters were invited about -a good deal, and lured into the thousand summer -gaieties of the town.</p> - -<p>One of the earliest arrivals was Luigi Caracciolo. -He came to Sorrento every season, but -usually not till the middle of August, and then -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> -to spend no more than a fortnight. He had -rather a disdain for Sorrento, he who had travelled -over the whole of Europe. This year he came -in the first week of July; and he was determined -to stay until Anna Dias left. He was genuinely -in love with her; in his own way, of course. The -mystery that hung over her past, and her love for -Cesare Dias, which Luigi knew to be unrequited, -made her all the dearer to him. He was in love, -as men are in love who have loved many times -before. Sometimes he lost his head a little in -her presence, but never more than a little. He -retained his mastery of himself sufficiently to -pursue his own well-proved methods of love-making. -He covered his real passion with a -semblance of levity which served admirably to -compel Anna to tolerate it.</p> - -<p>She never allowed him—especially at Sorrento, -where she was alone and where she was very sad—to -speak of love; but she could not forbid him -to call occasionally at the Villa Caterina, nor -could she help meeting him here and there in the -town. And Cesare, from Saint-Moritz, kept writing -to her and Laura to amuse themselves, to go -out, saying that he hated women who lived like -recluses. And sometimes he would add a joking -message for Caracciolo, calling him Anna's faithful -cavalier; but she, through delicacy, had not delivered -them.</p> - -<p>Luigi did not pay too open a court to her, did -not affect too great an intimacy; but he was never -far from her. For a whole evening he would -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -hover near her at a party, waiting for the moment -when he might seat himself beside her; he would -leave when she left, and on the pretext of taking -a little walk in the moonlight, would accompany -the two ladies to the door of their house. He -was persevering, with a gentle, continuous, untiring -perseverance that nothing could overcome, neither -Anna's silence, nor her coldness, nor her melancholy. -She often spoke to him of Cesare, and -with so much feeling in her voice that he turned -pale, wounded in his pride, disappointed in his -desire, yet not despairing, for it is always a -hopeful sign when a woman loves, even though -she loves another. Then the only difficulty -(though an immense one) is to change the face of -the man she loves to your own, by a sort of sentimental -sleight of hand.</p> - -<p>For various reasons, he was extremely cautious. -He was not one of those who enjoy advertising -their desires and their discomfitures on the walls -of the town. Then, he did not wish to alarm -Anna, and cause her to close her door to him. -And besides, he was afraid of the silent watchfulness -of Laura. The beautiful Minerva and the -handsome young man had never understood each -other; they were given to exchanging somewhat -sharp words at their encounters, a remarkable -proceeding on the part of Laura, who usually -talked little, and then only in brief and colourless -sentences. Her contempt for him was undisguised. -It appeared in her manner of looking him over -when he wore a new suit of clothes, in her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> -manner of beginning and ending her remarks to -him with the phrase, "A handsome young fellow -like you." That was rather bold, for a girl, but -Laura was over twenty, and both the sisters passed -for being nice, but rather original, nice but -original, as their mother and father had been -before them. Luigi Caracciolo himself thought -them odd, but the oddity of Anna was adorable, -that of Laura made him uneasy and distrustful. -He was afraid that on one day or another, she -might denounce him to Cesare, and betray his -love for the other's wife. She had such a sarcastic -smile sometimes on her lips! And her -laughter had such a scornful ring! He imagined -the most fantastic things in respect of her, and -feared her mightily.</p> - -<p>"How strange your sister is," he said once to -Anna, finding her alone.</p> - -<p>"She's good, though," said Anna, thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>"Does she seem so to you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"You little know. You're very ingenuous. -She's probably a monster of perfidy," he said -softly.</p> - -<p>"Why do you say that to me, Caracciolo? -Don't you know that I dislike such jokes?"</p> - -<p>"If I offend you, I'll hold my tongue. I keep -my opinion, though. Some day you'll agree with -me."</p> - -<p>"Be quiet, Caracciolo. You distress me."</p> - -<p>"It's much better to have no illusions; then -we can't lose them, dear lady."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It is better to lose illusions, than never to have -had them."</p> - -<p>"What a deep heart is yours! How I should -like to drown in it! Let me drown myself in -your heart, Anna."</p> - -<p>"Don't call me by my name," she said, as if -she had heard only his last word.</p> - -<p>"I will obey," he answered meekly.</p> - -<p>"You, too, are good," she murmured, absently.</p> - -<p>"I am as bad as can be, Signora," he rejoined, -piqued.</p> - -<p>She shook her head good-naturedly, with the -smile of one who would not believe in human -wickedness, who would keep her faith intact, in -spite of past delusions. And the more Luigi -Caracciolo posed as a depraved character, the -more she showed her belief that at the bottom -every human soul is good.</p> - -<p>"Everybody is good, according to you," he -said. "Then I suppose your husband, Cesare, is -good too?"</p> - -<p>"Too? He is the best of all. He is absolutely -good," she cried, her voice softening as it always -did when she spoke of Cesare.</p> - -<p>"He who leaves you here alone after a few -months of marriage?"</p> - -<p>"But I'm not alone," she retorted, simply.</p> - -<p>"You're not alone—you're in bad company," -he said, nervously.</p> - -<p>"Do you think so? I wasn't aware of it."</p> - -<p>"You couldn't tell me more politely that I'm a -nonentity. But he, he who is away, and who no -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> -doubt invents a thousands pretence to explain his -absence to you—can you really say that he is -good."</p> - -<p>"Cesare invents no pretences for me," she -replied, turning pale.</p> - -<p>"Who says so? He? Do you believe him?"</p> - -<p>"He says nothing. I have faith in him," she -answered, overwhelmed to hear her own daily fears -thus uttered for her.</p> - -<p>Caracciolo looked at her anxiously. Merely to -hear her pronounce her husband's name proved -that she adored him. Luigi was too expert a -student of women not to interpret rightly her -pallor, her emotion, her distress. He did not -know, but he could easily guess that Anna wrote -to Cesare every day, and that he responded rarely -and briefly. He understood how heavy her long -hours of solitude must be, amid the blue and green -of the Sorrento landscape, passed in constant -longing for her husband's presence. He understood -perfectly that she was consumed by secret -jealousy, and that he tortured her cruelly when by -a word, or an insinuation he inspired her with new -suspicions. He could read her heart like an open -book; but he loved her all the better for the -intense passion that breathed from its pages. He -did not despair. Sooner or later, he was convinced, -he would succeed in overcoming the -obstacle in his way. He adopted the ancient -method of assailing the character of the absent -man.</p> - -<p>When he would mention some old flame of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -Cesare's, or some affair that still continued, and -which his marriage could not break off, or when -he would speak of Cesare's desertion of his young -wife, he saw Anna's face change; he knew the -anguish that he woke in her heart, and he suffered -wretchedly to realise that it was for the love of -another man. His weapon was a double-edged -sword, that wounded her and wounded him. But -what of that? He continued to wield it, believing -that thus little by little he could deface the image -of Cesare Dias that Anna consecrated with her -adoration.</p> - -<p>Anna was always ready to talk of her husband, -and that gave him his opportunity for putting in -his innuendoes. At the same time it caused him -much bitterness of spirit, and sometimes he would -say, "We are three. How do you do, Cesare?" -bowing to an imaginary presence.</p> - -<p>Anna's eyes filled with tears at such moments.</p> - -<p>"Forgive me, forgive me," he cried. "But -when you introduce his name into our conversation, -you cause me such agony that I feel I am -winning my place in heaven. Go on: I am -already tied to the rack; force your knife into my -heart, gentle torturess."</p> - -<p>And she, at first timidly, but then with the -impetuousness of an open and generous nature, -would continue to talk of Cesare. Where was he, -what was he doing, when would he return? she -would ask; and he by-and-by would interrupt -her speculations to suggest that Cesare was probably -just now on the Righi, with the Comtesse de -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -Béhague, one of his old French loves, whom he -met every year in Switzerland; and that he would -very likely not return to Sorrento at all, nor even -to Naples before the end of October.</p> - -<p>"I don't believe it, I don't believe it," she -protested.</p> - -<p>"You don't believe it? But it's his usual habit. -Why should he alter it this year?"</p> - -<p>"He has me to think of now."</p> - -<p>"Ah, dear Anna, dear Anna, he thinks of you -so little!"</p> - -<p>"Don't call me by my name," she said, making a -gesture to forbid him.</p> - -<p>"If Cesare heard me he wouldn't like it—eh?"</p> - -<p>"I think so."</p> - -<p>"You hope so, dear lady, which is a very -different thing. But he's not jealous."</p> - -<p>"No; he's not jealous," she repeated, softly, -lost in sorrowful meditations. "But what man -is?"</p> - -<p>"He's a man who has never thought of anything -but his own pleasure."</p> - -<p>"Sad, sad," she murmured very low.</p> - -<p>Yet, though she thoroughly well understood -that a better knowledge of her husband's past life -could only bring her greater pain, she began to -question Luigi Caracciolo about Cesare's adventures. -Ah, how ashamed she was to do so! It -seemed like violating a confidence; like desecrating -an idol that she had erected on the altar of her -heart. It seemed like breaking the most sacred -condition of love, which is secrecy, to speak thus -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -of her love to a man who loved her. Yet the -temptation was too strong for her. And cautiously, -by hints, she endeavoured to draw from Caracciolo -some fact, some episode, a detail, a name, a date; -she would try to ask indifferently, feigning a slight -interest, attempting without success to play the -woman of wit—she, poor thing, who was only a -woman of heart.</p> - -<p>Caracciolo understood at once, and for form's -sake assumed a certain reluctance. Then, as if -won by her wishes, he would speak; he would -give her a fact, an episode, a date, a name, commenting -upon it in such wise as, without directly -speaking ill of Cesare, to underline his hardness -of heart and his incapacity for real passion. It -was sad wisdom that Anna hereby gained. Her -husband's soul was cold and arid; he had always -been the same; nothing had ever changed him. -Sometimes, sick and tired, she would pray -Caracciolo by a gesture to stop his talk; she -would remain thoughtful and silent, feeling that -she had poured a corrosive acid into her own -wounds. Sometimes Laura would be present at -these conversations, beautiful, in white garments, -with soft, lovely eyes. She listened to Caracciolo -with close attention, whilst an inscrutable smile -played on her virginal lips. He, in deference -to the young girl's presence, would, from time to -time, drop the subject; then Laura would look at -him with an expression of ardent curiosity that -surprised him, a look that seemed to ask a hundred -questions. His narrative of the life of Cesare Dias -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -succeeded in spoiling Anna's holiday, but did not -advance his courtship by an inch.</p> - -<p>He has great patience, and unlimited faith in -his method. He knew that a strong passion or a -strong desire can overcome in time the most insurmountable -obstacles. Yet he had moments of -terrible discouragement. How she loved him, -Cesare Dias, this beautiful woman! It was a love -all the more sad to contemplate, because of the -discrepancies of age and character between husband -and wife. Here was a fresh young girl uncomplainingly -supporting the neglect of a worn-out -man of forty.</p> - -<p>One day, unexpectedly, Cesare returned. From -his wife's pallor, from her trembling, he understood -how much he had been loved during his absence. -He was very kind to her, very gallant, very tender. -He embraced her and kissed her many times, -effusively, and told her that she was far lovelier -than the ladies of France and Switzerland. He -was in the best of good humours; and she, laughing -with tears in her eyes, and holding his hand -as she stood beside him, realised anew how single -and absolute was her love for him.</p> - -<p>Two or three times Cesare asked, "And Laura?"</p> - -<p>"She's very well. She'll be coming soon."</p> - -<p>"You haven't found her a husband?"</p> - -<p>"She doesn't want one."</p> - -<p>"That's what all girls say."</p> - -<p>"Laura is obstinate. She really doesn't want -one. People even think she would like to become -a nun."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Nonsense."</p> - -<p>"The strange thing is that once when I asked -her if it was true, she answered no."</p> - -<p>"She's an odd girl," said Cesare, a little pensively.</p> - -<p>"I don't understand her."</p> - -<p>"Ah, for that matter, you understand very little -in general," said her husband, caressing her hair to -temper his impertinence.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you're right; very little," she answered, -with a happy smile. "I'm an imbecile."</p> - -<p>But Laura did not come, though she had been -called. Anna sent her maid. "She would come -at once; she was dressing," was the reply. They -waited for her a few minutes longer; and when -she appeared in the doorway, dazzling in white, -with her golden hair in a rich coil on the top -of her head, Anna cried, "Laura, Cesare has -come."</p> - -<p>Cesare rose and advanced to meet his sister-in-law. -She gave him her hand, and he kissed it. -But he saw that she was offering her face; then -he embraced her, kissing her cheek, which was -like the petal of a camellia. This was all over -in an instant, but it seemed a long instant to -Anna; and she had an instinctive feeling of repulsion -when Laura, blushing a little, came up and -kissed her. It was an instinctive caress on the -part of Laura, and an instinctive movement of -repulsion on that of Anna. Not that she had the -faintest evil thought or suspicion; it was a vague -distress, a subtle pain, nothing else.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> - -<p>From that day life in the quiet Villa Caterina -became sensibly gayer; there were visits and receptions, -dances, and yachting parties. It was -an extremely lively season at Sorrento. There -were a good many foreigners in the town; amongst -them two or three wild American girls, who swam, -rowed, played croquet and lawn-tennis, were very -charming, and had handsome dowries. It became -the fashion for the men to make love to these -young persons, a thing that was sufficiently unusual -in a society where flirtation with unmarried -women is supposed to be forbidden. Cesare told -Anna that it was a propitious moment for launching -Laura; she too had a handsome dowry, and -was very lovely, though she lacked perhaps the -vivacity of the wild Americans; and with the -energy of a youth, he took his wife and sister -everywhere.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo continued to make his court -to Anna. With delicate cynicism, Cesare, on his -return, had inquired whether Luigi had faithfully -discharged his duty as her cavalier, but Anna had -turned such talk aside, for it hurt her. Laura, -however, declared that Luigi had accomplished -miracles of devotion, and shown himself a model -of constancy.</p> - -<p>"And the lady, what of her?" asked Cesare, -pulling his handsome black moustaches.</p> - -<p>"Heartless," Laura answered, smiling at Anna, -for whom this joking was a martyrdom.</p> - -<p>"Noble but heartless lady!" repeated Cesare.</p> - -<p>"Would you have wished me to be otherwise?" -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -demanded Anna, quickly, looking into her husband's -eyes.</p> - -<p>"No; I should not have wished it," was his -prompt rejoinder.</p> - -<p>In spite of this downright pronouncement, in -which her husband, for all his cynicism, asserted -his invincible right to her fidelity—in spite of the -fact that Cesare appeared to watch the comings -and goings of Caracciolo—he openly jested with -his wife's follower about his courtship.</p> - -<p>"Well, how is it getting on, Luigi?" he asked -one day.</p> - -<p>"Badly, Cesare. It couldn't be worse," responded -Luigi, with a melancholy accent that -was only half a feint.</p> - -<p>"And yet I left the field free to you."</p> - -<p>"Yes; you are as generous as the emperors -your namesakes; but when you have captured a -province you know how to keep it, whether you -are far or near."</p> - -<p>"Men of my age always do, Luigi."</p> - -<p>"Ah, you have a different tradition."</p> - -<p>"What tradition?"</p> - -<p>"You don't love."</p> - -<p>"What! Do you mean to say that you -young fellows love?" asked Cesare, lifting his -eyebrows.</p> - -<p>"Sometimes, you know, we commit that folly."</p> - -<p>"It's a mistaken method—a grave blunder. I -hope that you've not fallen into it."</p> - -<p>"I don't know," said Luigi, looking mysterious. -"Besides, your question strikes me as prompted -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -by jealousy. I'll say no more. It might end in -bloodshed."</p> - -<p>"I don't think so," laughed Cesare.</p> - -<p>"But you'll drive me to despair, Dias. Don't -you see that your confidence tortures me. For -heaven's sake, do me the favour of being -jealous."</p> - -<p>"Anything to oblige you, my dear fellow, except -that. I've never been jealous of a woman in my -life."</p> - -<p>"And why not?"</p> - -<p>"Because——. One day or another I'll tell -you." And putting his arm through Luigi's he -led him into the drawing-room of the Hotel -Vittoria.</p> - -<p>Such talks were frequent between them; on -Cesare's side calm and ironical, on Luigi's sometimes -a little bitter. On their family outings, -Cesare always gave his arm to Laura, for he held -it ridiculous for a husband to pair off with his -wife; and Caracciolo would devote himself to -Anna. Cesare would make him a sign of intelligence, -laughing at his assiduity.</p> - -<p>"Rigidly obeying orders, eh?" asked the sarcastic -husband.</p> - -<p>"Anyhow, it's she who's given me my orders," -answered the other, sadly.</p> - -<p>"But really, Anna, you're putting to death -the handsomest lad in Christendom!" exclaimed -Cesare.</p> - -<p>"The world is the richer for those who die of -love," she returned.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Sentimental aphorism," said Cesare, with a -cutting ironical smile.</p> - -<p>And he went away to dance with Laura. -Between Anna and Luigi there was a long silence. -It was impossible for her to listen to these pleasantries -without suffering. The idea that her -husband could speak thus lightly of another man's -love for her, the idea that he could treat as a -worldly frivolity the daily siege that Caracciolo -was laying to her heart, martyrised her. She was -nothing to him, since he could allow another man -to court her. He never showed a sign of jealousy, -and jealousy pleases women even when they know -it is not sincere. She was angry with Cesare as -much as with Luigi.</p> - -<p>"You jest too much about your feelings for -any woman to take them seriously," she said to -the latter, one evening, when they were listening -to a concert of mandolines and guitars.</p> - -<p>"You're right," he answered, turning pale. -"But once when I never jested, I had equally -bad luck. You refused to marry me."</p> - -<p>He spoke sadly. That she had refused to -marry him still further embittered for him her -present indifference. How could a woman have -refused a rich and handsome youth, for a man -who had passed forty, and was effete in mind -and body? How had Cesare Dias so completely -taken possession of this woman's heart? The -passion of Anna for Cesare, and that of Caracciolo -for Anna, were much talked of in Sorrento society, -and the general opinion was that Dias must be a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -tremendous wizard, that he possessed to a supreme -degree the art of attracting men and winning -women, and that everybody was right to love and -worship him. As for Caracciolo, his was the -story of a failure.</p> - -<p>Caracciolo himself, moved by I know not what -instinct of loyalty, of vanity, or of subtle calculation, -accepted and even exaggerated his role of an unsuccessful -lover. Wherever he went, at the theatre, -at parties, he showed plainly that he was waiting -for Anna, and was nervous and restless until she -came. His face changed when she entered, bowed -to him, gave him her hand; and when she left he -followed immediately. Perhaps he was glad that -all this should be noticed. He knew he could -never move her by appearing cold and sceptical; -that was Cesare's pose, and in it Luigi could -not hope to rival him. Perhaps her sympathies -would be stirred if she saw him ardent and -sorrowful.</p> - -<p>In the autumn he perceived that Anna was -troubled by some new grief. Her joy at the -return of Cesare had given place to a strange -agitation. She was pale and silent, with dark -circles under her eyes. And he realised that -whatever faint liking she had had for himself had -been blotted out by a sorrow whose causes were -unknown to him.</p> - -<p>One day he said to her, "Something is troubling -you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," she answered frankly.</p> - -<p>"Will you tell me what it is?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No; I don't wish to," she said, with the same -frankness.</p> - -<p>"Am I unworthy of your confidence?"</p> - -<p>"I can't tell it to you, I can't. It's too horrible," -she murmured, with so heart-broken an inflection -that he was silent, fearing lest others should witness -her emotion.</p> - -<p>He returned to the subject later on, but without -result. Anna appeared horror-struck by her own -thoughts and feelings. Luigi had numberless -suspicions. Had Anna secretly come to love him? -Or, had she fallen in love with some one else, -some one unknown to him? But he soon saw that -neither of these suppositions were tenable. He -saw that she had not for a moment ceased to love -Cesare Dias, and that her grief, whatever it was, -sprang as usual from her love for him.</p> - -<p>For the first week after his return her husband -had been kind and tender to her; then, little by -little, he had resumed his old indifference. He -constantly neglected her. He went out perpetually -with Laura, on the pretext that she was too old -now to be accompanied only by her governess, and -that it was his duty to find a husband for her. -Sometimes Anna went with them, to enjoy her -husband's presence.</p> - -<p>Often he and Laura would joke together about -this question of her marriage.</p> - -<p>"How many suitors have you?" asked Cesare, -laughing.</p> - -<p>"Four who have declared themselves; three or -four others who are a little uncertain."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> - -<p>Anna felt herself excluded from their intimacy, -and sought in vain to enter it. It made her exceedingly -unhappy.</p> - -<p>She was jealous of her sister, and she hated -herself for her jealousy.</p> - -<p>"I am vile and perfidious since I suspect others -of vileness and perfidy," she told herself to.</p> - -<p>Was it possible that Cesare could be guilty of -such a dreadful sin, that he could be making love -to Laura?</p> - -<p>"What's the matter with you? What are you -thinking about?" he asked his wife.</p> - -<p>"Nothing, nothing."</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" he insisted.</p> - -<p>"Don't ask me, don't ask me," she exclaimed, -putting her hand over his mouth.</p> - -<p>But one evening, when they were alone, and he -again questioned her, she answered, "It's because -I love you so, Cesare, I love you so."</p> - -<p>"I know it," he said, with a light smile. "But -it isn't only that, dear Anna."</p> - -<p>And he playfully ruffled up her black hair.</p> - -<p>"You're right. It isn't only that. I'm jealous -of you, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"And of what woman?" he asked, suddenly -becoming cold and imperious.</p> - -<p>"Of all women. If you so much as touch a -woman's hand, I am in despair."</p> - -<p>"Of women in general?"</p> - -<p>"Of women in general."</p> - -<p>"Of no one in particular?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p> - -<p>She hesitated for a moment. "Of no one in -particular."</p> - -<p>"It's fancy, superstition," he said, pulling his -moustache.</p> - -<p>"It's love, love," she cried. "Ah, if you should -love another, I would kill myself."</p> - -<p>"I don't think you'll die a violent death," said -he, laughing.</p> - -<p>"Remember—darling—I would kill myself."</p> - -<p>"You'll live to be eighty, and die in your bed," -he said, still laughing.</p> - -<p>For a few days she was reassured. But on the -first occasion, when her husband and Laura again -went out together, her jealousy returned, and she -suffered atrociously. Her conduct became odd -and extravagant. Sometimes she treated Laura -with the greatest kindness; sometimes she was -rude to her, and would leave her brusquely, to go -and shut herself up in her own room.</p> - -<p>Laura asked no questions.</p> - -<p>"When are we going to leave Sorrento?" -Anna asked. But her husband did not answer, -appearing to wish to prolong their sojourn there.</p> - -<p>"Let us go away, I beg you, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"So soon? Naples is empty at this season. -There's nothing to do there. We'd have the air -of provincials."</p> - -<p>"That doesn't matter. Let us go away, -Cesare."</p> - -<p>"You are bored, here in the loveliest spot in -the world?"</p> - -<p>"Sorrento is lovely, but I want to go away."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> - -<p>"As you wish," he said, suddenly consenting. -"Give orders to the servants to make ready."</p> - -<p>And, to avenge himself, he neglected her -utterly during the last two or three days, going -off constantly with Laura.</p> - -<p>On the eve of their departure Luigi Caracciolo -called, to make his adieux. He found Anna -alone.</p> - -<p>"Good evening, Signora Dias," he said, and -the commonplace words had an inflection of -melancholy.</p> - -<p>"Good evening. You've not gone to the farewell -dance at the Vittoria?"</p> - -<p>"I have no farewells to give except to you."</p> - -<p>"Farewell, then," she said, seating herself near -him.</p> - -<p>"Farewell," he murmured, smiling, and looking -into her eyes. "But we shall meet again within a -fortnight."</p> - -<p>"I don't know whether I shall be receiving so -soon. I don't know whether I shall receive at -all."</p> - -<p>"You're going to shut your doors to me?" he -asked, turning pale.</p> - -<p>"Not to you only, to everybody. I'm not made -for society. I'm out of place in it, out of tune -with it. Solitude suits me better."</p> - -<p>"You will die of loneliness. Seeing a few devoted -friends will do you good."</p> - -<p>"My troubles are too deep."</p> - -<p>"Don't you think you're a little selfish? If -you shut your doors, others will suffer, and you -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> -don't care. You are willing to deprive us of the -great pleasure of seeing you. But don't you -know that the pain we give reacts upon ourselves? -Don't be selfish."</p> - -<p>"It's true. I'm perhaps selfish. But who of -us is perfect? The most innocent, the purest -people in the world, can make others unhappy, -without wishing to."</p> - -<p>He studied her, feeling that he was near to the -secret of her sorrow.</p> - -<p>"Sorrento has bored you?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Not exactly bored me. I have been unhappy -here."</p> - -<p>"More unhappy than at Naples?"</p> - -<p>"More than at Naples."</p> - -<p>"And why?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I carry my unhappiness with me."</p> - -<p>"Did you imagine that Sorrento would make -over the man you love?"</p> - -<p>"I hoped——"</p> - -<p>"Nothing can make that man over. He's not -bad perhaps; but he's what he is."</p> - -<p>"It's true."</p> - -<p>"Why, then, do you seek the impossible?" he -went on.</p> - -<p>"And you—aren't you seeking the impossible?" -she retorted.</p> - -<p>"Yes. But I stop at wishing for it. You see -how reasonable I am. You are sad, very sad, -Anna, and not for my sake, for another's; yet I -should be so happy if I could help you or comfort -you in any way."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Thank you, thank you," she replied, moved.</p> - -<p>"I believe that dark days are waiting for you -at Naples. I don't wish to prophesy evil, Anna, -but that is my belief."</p> - -<p>"I'm sure of it," said she, and a sudden desperation -showed itself in her face.</p> - -<p>"Well, will you treat me as a friend, and remember -me in your moments of pain?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I will remember you."</p> - -<p>"Will you call me to you?"</p> - -<p>"I will call upon you as upon a brother."</p> - -<p>"Listen, Anna. Officially I live with my mother -in our old family palace. But my real home is -the Rey Villa in the Chiatamone. I promise -you, Anna, that I am speaking to you now, as I -would speak to my dearest sister. Remember -this, that, beginning a fortnight hence, I will wait -there every day till four o'clock in the afternoon, -to hear from you. I shall be quite alone in the -house, Anna. You can come without fear, if you -need me. Or you can send for me. My dearest -hope will be in some way to serve you. I will -obey you like a slave. Anna, Anna, when your -hour of trouble arrives, remember that I am -waiting for you. When you have need of a -friend's help, remember that I am waiting."</p> - -<p>"But why do you give me your life like this?"</p> - -<p>"Because it is good to give it thus. You, if -you loved, would you not do the same?"</p> - -<p>"I would do the same. I would give my life."</p> - -<p>"You see! But forget that word love; it -escaped me involuntarily. It is not the man who -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> -loves you, it is the devoted friend, it is the -brother, whom you are to remember. My every -day will be at your disposal. I swear that no -unhallowed thought shall move me."</p> - -<p>"I believe you," she said.</p> - -<p>She gave him her hand. He kissed it.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>IV.</h2> - -<p>Anna was as good as her word, and on her -return to Naples shut herself up in solitude and -silence, receiving no one, visiting no one, spending -much of her time in her own room, going in the -morning for long walks in the hope of tiring herself -out, speaking but little, and living in a sort -of moral somnolence that seemed to dull her -sorrows. Her husband and sister continued to -enjoy their liberty, as they had enjoyed it at -Sorrento. She left them to themselves. She -was alternately consumed by suspicions and remorseful -for them. In vain she sought comfort -from religion, her piety could not bear the contact -of her earthly passion, and was destroyed by it. -She had gone to her confessor, meaning to tell -him everything, but when she found herself kneeling -before the iron grating, her courage failed -her; she dared not accuse her husband and her -sister to a stranger. So she spoke confusedly -and vaguely, and the good priest could give her -only vague consolation.</p> - -<p>She abandoned herself to a complete moral -prostration. She passed long hours motionless in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> -her easy-chair, or on her bed, in a sort of stupor -and often was absent from table, on one pretext -or another.</p> - -<p>"The Signora came home an hour ago, and is -lying down," said Cesare's man-servant.</p> - -<p>"Very good. Don't disturb her," returned his -master, with an air of relief.</p> - -<p>"The Signora has a headache, and will not -come to luncheon," said Anna's maid to Laura.</p> - -<p>"Very good. Stay within call, if she should -wish for anything," responded Laura, serene and -imperturbable.</p> - -<p>And Cesare and Laura merrily pursued their -intimacy, never bestowing a thought upon her -whom they thereby wounded in every fibre of her -body, and in the essence of her soul. The anguish -of jealousy is like the anguish of death, and Anna -suffered it to the ultimate pang, at the same time -despising herself for it, telling herself that she was -the most unjust of women. Her sister was purity -itself; her husband was incapable of evil; they -were superior beings, worthy of adoration; and -she was daily thinking of them as criminals, and -covering them with mire. Often and often, in the -rare moments when her husband treated her affectionately, -she longed to open her heart and tell -him everything. But his manner intimidated her, -and she dared not. She wondered whether she -might not be mad, and whether her jealousy was -not the figment of an infirm mind. She had hoped -to find peace in flying from Sorrento; now her -hope was undeceived; and Anna understood that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> -her pain came from within, not from without. To -see her sister and her husband together, seated -side by side, walking arm in arm, pressing each -other's hands, looking and smiling at each other, -was more than she could bear; she fled their -presence; she left the house for long wanderings -in the streets, or shut herself up in her own room, -knowing but too well that they would not notice -her absence. Indeed, it would be like a burden -taken from their shoulders, for she was a burden -to them, with her pallor and her speechlessness.</p> - -<p>"They are gay, and I bore them," she told -herself.</p> - -<p>On several occasions, Cesare twitted her on the -subject of her continual melancholy, demanding -its cause; but Anna, smarting under his sarcasms, -could not answer him. One day, in great -irritation, he declared that she had no right to go -about posing as a victim, for she wasn't a victim, -and her sentimental vapourings bored him -immensely.</p> - -<p>"Ah, I bore you; I bore you," cried Anna, -shaking with suppressed sobs.</p> - -<p>"Yes, unspeakably. And I hope that some -day or another you'll stop boring me, do you -hear?"</p> - -<p>"I had better die. That would be best," she -sighed.</p> - -<p>"But can't you live and be less tiresome? Is -it a task, a mission, that you have undertaken, to -bore people?"</p> - -<p>"I had better die, better die," she sobbed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p> - -<p>He went off abruptly, cursing his lot, cursing -above all the monstrous error he had made in -marrying this foolish creature. And she, who -had wished to ask his pardon, found herself alone. -Later in the same day she noticed that Laura -treated her with a certain contempt, shrugging her -shoulders at the sight of her eyes red from -weeping.</p> - -<p>Anna determined that she would try to take on -at least the external appearances of contentment. -The beautiful Neapolitan winter was beginning. -She had eight or ten new frocks made, and -resolved to become frivolous and vain. Whenever -she went out she invariably met Luigi -Caracciolo; it was as if she had forewarned him -of her itinerary. He had divined it, with that fine -intuition which lovers have. They never stopped -to speak, however; they simply bowed and passed -on. But in his way of looking at her she could -read the words of their understanding—"Remember, -every day, till four o'clock."</p> - -<p>She threw herself into the excitements of -society, going much to the theatre and paying -many calls. Cesare encouraged this new departure.</p> - -<p>The people amongst whom she moved agreed -that she was very attractive, but whispered that -one day or another she would do something wild.</p> - -<p>"What?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, something altogether extravagant."</p> - -<p>One evening towards the end of January Anna -was going to the San Carlo; it was a first night. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> -At dinner she asked Laura if she would care to -accompany her.</p> - -<p>"No," answered Laura, absently.</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>"I've got to get up early to-morrow morning, to -go to Confession."</p> - -<p>"Ah, very well. And you—will you come, -Cesare?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said, hesitating a little.</p> - -<p>"Cousin Scibilia is coming too," Anna added.</p> - -<p>"Then, if you will permit me, I'll not come till -the second act." And he smiled amiably.</p> - -<p>"Have you something to do?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; but we'll come home together."</p> - -<p>Anna turned red and white. There was something -half apologetic in her husband's tone, as if -he had a guilty conscience in regard to her. But -what did that matter? The prospect of coming -home together, alone in a closed carriage, delighted -her.</p> - -<p>She went to dress for the theatre. She put on -for the first time a gown of blue brocade, with a -long train, bold in colour, but admirably setting -off the rich ivory of Anna's complexion. In her -black hair she fixed three diamond stars. She -wore no bracelets, but round her throat a single -string of pearls. When she was dressed, she sent -for her husband.</p> - -<p>"You're looking most beautiful," he said.</p> - -<p>He took her hands and kissed them; then he -kissed her fair round arms; and then he kissed -her lips. She thrilled with joy and bowed her head.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> - -<p>"We'll meet at the theatre," he said, "and come -home together."</p> - -<p>She called for the Marchesa Scibilia, who now -lived in the girls' old house in the Via Gerolomini. -And they drove on towards the theatre. But -when they reached the Toledo they were met by -a number of carriages returning. The explanation -of this the two ladies learned under the portico of -the San Carlo. Over the white play-bill a notice -was posted announcing the sudden indisposition of -the prima-donna, and informing the public that -there would accordingly be no performance that -evening. Anna had a lively movement of disappointment, -jumping out of her <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coupé</i> to read the -notice for herself.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo was waiting in the shadow of -a pillar, sure that she would come.</p> - -<p>"Marchesa, you have a very ferocious cousin," -he said, stepping forward to kiss the old lady's -hand, and laughing at Anna's manifest anger. -Then he bowed to her, and in his eyes there was -the eternal message, "Remember, I wait for you -every day."</p> - -<p>She shook her head in the darkness. She was -bitterly disappointed. Her evening was lost—the -evening during which she had counted upon being -alone with Cesare in their box, alone with him in -the carriage, alone with him at home. And her -beautiful blue gown; she had put it on to no purpose.</p> - -<p>"What shall we do?" she asked her cousin.</p> - -<p>"I'm going home. I don't care to go anywhere -else. And you?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'm going home, too."</p> - -<p>She half hoped that she might still find Cesare -at the house, and so have at least a half hour -with him before he went out. He was very slow -about dressing; he never hurried, even when he -had an urgent appointment. Perhaps she would -find him in his room, tying his white tie, putting -a flower in his button-hole. She deposited the -Marchesa Scibilia at the palace in the Via Gerolomini, -and bade her coachman hurry home.</p> - -<p>"Has the Signore gone out?" she asked the -porter.</p> - -<p>No, he had not gone out. The porter was -about to pull his bell-cord, to ring for a footman, -but Anna instinctively stopped him. She wished -to surprise her husband. She put her finger to -her lips, smiling, as she met one of the maids, and -crossed the house noiselessly, arriving thus at the -door of Cesare's room, the door that gave upon -the vestibule, not the one which communicated -with the passage between his room and Anna's.</p> - -<p>The door was not locked. She opened it softly. -She would surprise her husband so merrily. But, -having opened the door, she found herself still in -darkness, for Cesare had lowered the two <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">portières</i> -of heavy olive velvet.</p> - -<p>A sudden interior force prevented Anna's lifting -the curtains and showing herself. She remained -there behind them, perfectly concealed, and able -to see and hear everything that went on in the -room, through an aperture.</p> - -<p>Cesare was in his dress-suit, with an immaculate -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> -white waistcoat, a watch-chain that went from -his waistcoat-pocket to the pocket of his trousers, -with a beautiful white gardenia in his button-hole, -his handsome black moustaches freshly curled, -and his whole air one of profound satisfaction. -He was seated in a big leather arm-chair, his fine -head resting on its brown cushions, against which -the pallor of his face stood out charmingly.</p> - -<p>He was not alone.</p> - -<p>Laura, dressed in that soft white wool which -seemed especially woven for her supple and flowing -figure, with a bouquet of white roses in the cincture -that passed twice loosely round her waist, with -her blonde hair artistically held in place by small -combs of tortoise-shell, and forming a sort of -aureole about her brow and temples, the glory of -her womanly beauty—Laura was in Cesare's room.</p> - -<p>She was not seated on one of his olive velvet -sofas, nor on one of his stools of carved wood, -nor in one of his leather easy-chairs. She was -seated on the arm of the chair in which he himself -reclined; she was seated side wise, swinging -one of her little feet, in a black slipper richly -embroidered with pearls, and an open-work black -silk stocking.</p> - -<p>One of her arms was extended across the -cushion above Cesare's head; and, being higher -up than he, she had to bend down, to speak into -his face. She was smiling, a strange, deep smile, -such as had never been seen before upon the -pure red curve of her lips.</p> - -<p>Cesare, with his face turned up, was looking at -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> -her; and every now and then he took her hand -and kissed it, a kiss that lingered, lingered while -she changed colour.</p> - -<p>He kissed her hand, and she was silent, and he -was silent; but it was not a sad silence, not a -thoughtful silence. It was a silence in which -they seemed to find an unutterable pleasure. -They found an unutterable pleasure in their -silence, their solitude, their freedom, their intimate -companionship, in the kiss he had just given her, -and which was the forerunner of many others.</p> - -<p>Anna had arrived behind the curtain at the -very moment when Cesare was kissing Laura's -hand. She saw them gazing into each other's -eyes, speechless with their emotion. Anna could -hear nothing but the tumultuous beating of her -own heart, a beating that leapt up to her throat, -making it too throb tumultuously.</p> - -<p>The fine white hand of Laura remained in -Cesare's, softly surrendered to him; then, as if -the mere contact were not enough, his and her -fingers closely interlaced themselves. The girl, -who had not removed her eyes from his, smiled -languorously, as if all her soul were in her hand, -joined now for ever to the hand of Cesare; a -smile that confessed herself conquered, yet proclaimed -herself triumphant.</p> - -<p>They did not speak. But their story spoke -for itself.</p> - -<p>Anna saw how close they were to each other, -saw how their hands were joined, saw the glances -of passionate tenderness that they exchanged. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> -Clearly, in every detail, she witnessed this silent -scene of love. Her heart, her temples, her pulses, -pounded frightfully; her nerves palpitated; and -she said to herself:</p> - -<p>"Oh, I am dreaming, I am dreaming."</p> - -<p>Like one dreaming, indeed, she was unable to -move, unable to cry out; her tongue clove to the -roof of her mouth; she could not lift the curtains; -she could not advance, she could not tear -herself away. She could only stand there rigid -as stone, and behold the dreadful vision. Every -line of it, every passing expression on Cesare's -or Laura's face, burned itself into her brain with -fierce and terrible precision. And in her tortured -heart she was conscious of but one mute, continuous, -childlike prayer—not to see any longer -that which she saw—to be freed from her nightmare, -waked from her dream. And all her inner -forces were bent upon the effort to close her eyes, -to lower her eyelids, and put a veil between her -and that sight. Her prayer was not answered; -she could not close her eyes.</p> - -<p>Laura took her bouquet of white roses from her -belt, and playfully struck Cesare's shoulder with -them. Then she raised them to her face, breathing -in their perfume, and kissing them. Smiling, -she offered Cesare the roses that she had kissed, -and he with his lips drank her kisses from them. -After that, she kissed them again, convulsively, -turning away her head. Their eyes burned, his -and hers. Again he sought her kisses amongst -the roses; and she put down her face to kiss -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -them anew, at the same time with him. And -slowly, from the cold, fragrant roses, their lips -turned, and met in a kiss. Their hands were -joined, their faces were near together, their lips -met in a kiss, and their eyes that had burned, -softened with fond light.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I am mad," Anna said to herself, -hearing the wild blows of the blood in her brain.</p> - -<p>And, to make sure, wishing to be convinced -that it was all an hallucination, she prayed that -they might speak; perhaps they were mere -phantoms sent to kill her. No sound issued from -their lips.</p> - -<p>"Lord, Lord—a word," she prayed in her heart. -"A sound—a proof that they are real, or that -they are spectres."</p> - -<p>She heard, indeed, a deep sigh. It came from -Laura, after their long kiss. The girl jumped up, -freed her hands from Cesare's, and took two or -three steps into the room. She was nearer to -Anna now. Her cheeks were red, her hair was -ruffled; and she, with a vague, unconscious -movement, lifted it up behind her ears. Her lips -were parted in a smile that revealed her dazzling -teeth. Her gaze wandered, proud and sad.</p> - -<p>"Heaven, heaven give her strength to go away. -Give her strength, give me strength," prayed Anna, -in her dream, in her madness.</p> - -<p>But Laura had not the strength to go away. -She returned to Cesare; she sat down at his feet, -looking up at him, smiling upon him, holding his -hand, adoring him. And Cesare, his eyes filled -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> -with tears, kissed her lips again and again—a -torrent of kisses.</p> - -<p>"Cesare cannot weep. They are phantoms. I -am mad," said Anna. A terrible fire leapt from -her heart to her brain, making her tremble as in a -fever; and then a sudden cold seemed to freeze -her. She had heard. These phantoms had -spoken. They were a man and a woman; they -were her husband, Cesare, and her sister Laura. -Laura had drawn away from Cesare's fury of -kisses, and was standing beside him, while he, -still seated, held her two hands. They were -smiling upon each other.</p> - -<p>"Do you love me?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I love you," answered Laura.</p> - -<p>"How much do you love me?"</p> - -<p>"So much! So much!"</p> - -<p>"But how much?"</p> - -<p>"Absolutely."</p> - -<p>"And—how long will you love me, Laura?"</p> - -<p>"Always."</p> - -<p>Now Anna was shivering with cold. She was -not mad. She was not dreaming. Her teeth -chattered. It seemed as if she had been standing -there for a century. She dreaded being discovered, -as if she were guilty of a crime. But she could -not move, she could not go away. It was too -much, too much; she could not endure it! She -covered her mouth with her fan, to suffocate her -voice, to keep from crying out, and cursing God -and love. Laura began to speak.</p> - -<p>"Do you love me?" she asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, I love you."</p> - -<p>"How much do you love me?"</p> - -<p>"With all my heart, Laura."</p> - -<p>"How long have you loved me?"</p> - -<p>"Always."</p> - -<p>"How long will you love me?"</p> - -<p>"Always."</p> - -<p>Unendurable, unendurable! A wild anger -tempted Anna to enter the room, to tear down -the curtains, to scream. It was unendurable.</p> - -<p>Cesare said to Laura, very softly, "Go away -now."</p> - -<p>"Why, love?"</p> - -<p>"Go away. It is late. You must go."</p> - -<p>"Ah, you're a bad love—bad!"</p> - -<p>"Don't say that. Don't look like that. Go -away, Laura."</p> - -<p>And fondly, he put his arm round her waist and -led her to the door.</p> - -<p>She moved reluctantly, leaning her head upon -his shoulder, looking up at him tenderly.</p> - -<p>At the door they kissed again.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, love," said Laura.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, love," said Cesare.</p> - -<p>The girl went away.</p> - -<p>Cesare came back, looking exhausted, deathlike. -He lit a cigarette.</p> - -<p>Anna, holding her breath, crossed the vestibule, -the smoking-room, the drawing-room, and at last -reached her own room, and shut her door behind -her. She had run swiftly, instinctively, with the -instinct that guides a wounded animal. Her maid -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> -came and knocked. She called to her that she -did not need her. Then some one else knocked.</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna," said the calm voice of her husband.</p> - -<p>"What do you want?" She had to lean on a -chair, to keep from falling; her voice was dull.</p> - -<p>"Was there no performance? Or were you -ill?"</p> - -<p>"There was no performance."</p> - -<p>"Have you just returned?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, just returned." But the lie made her blush.</p> - -<p>"And your Highness is invisible? I should like -to pay your Highness my respects."</p> - -<p>"No," she answered, with a choking voice.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, love," he called.</p> - -<p>"Oh, infamous, infamous!" she cried.</p> - -<p>But he had already moved away, and did not -hear.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>For a long while she lay on her bed, burying -her face in her pillow, biting it, to keep down her -sobs. She was shivering with cold, in spite of -the feather coverlet she had drawn over her. All -her flesh and spirit were in furious revolt against -the thing that she had seen and heard.</p> - -<p>She rose, and looked round her room. It was -in disorder—the dress she had worn, her fan, her -jewels tossed pell-mell hither and thither. Slowly, -with minute care, she gathered these objects up, -and put them in their places.</p> - -<p>Then she rang the bell.</p> - -<p>Her maid came, half asleep.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What time is it?" asked Anna, forgetting -that on the table beside her stood the clock that -Cesare had given her.</p> - -<p>"It's one," responded the maid.</p> - -<p>"So late?" inquired her mistress. "You may -go to bed."</p> - -<p>"And your Excellency?"</p> - -<p>"You can do nothing for me."</p> - -<p>But the maid began to smooth down the bed. -Feeling the pillow wet with tears, she said, with -the affectionate familiarity of Neapolitan servants, -"Whoever is good suffers."</p> - -<p>The words went through her heart like a knife. -Perhaps the servant knew. Perhaps she, Anna, -had been the only blind member of the household. -The whole miserable story of her desertion -and betrayal was known and commented upon by -her servants; and she was an object of their pity! -Whoever is good suffers!</p> - -<p>"Good night, your Excellency, and may you -sleep well," said the maid.</p> - -<p>"Thank you. Good-night."</p> - -<p>She was alone again. She had not had the -courage to ask whether her husband had come -home; he was most probably out, amusing himself -in society.</p> - -<p>For a half hour she lay on her sofa; then she -got up. A big lamp burned on her table, but -before going away her maid had lighted another -lamp, a little ancient Pompeian lamp of bronze -that in old times had doubtless lighted Pompeian -ladies to their trysts.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> - -<p>Anna took this lamp and left her room. The -house was dark and silent. She moved towards -Laura's room; and suddenly she remembered -another night, like this, when she had stolen through -a dark sleeping house to join Giustino Morelli on -the terrace, and offer to fly with him. Giustino -Morelli, who was he? what was he? A shadow, a -dream. A thing that had passed utterly from her life.</p> - -<p>At her sister's door she paused for a moment, -then she opened it noiselessly, and guided by the -light of her lamp, approached her sister's bed. -Laura was sleeping peacefully; Anna held up her -lamp and looked at her.</p> - -<p>She smiled in her sleep.</p> - -<p>"Laura!" Anna called, so close to her that her -breath fell on her cheek. "Laura!"</p> - -<p>Her sister moved slightly, but did not wake.</p> - -<p>"Laura! Laura!"</p> - -<p>Her sister sat up. She appeared frightened for -a moment, but then she composed herself with -an effort.</p> - -<p>"It is I, Laura," said Anna, putting her lamp -on a table.</p> - -<p>"I see you," returned Laura.</p> - -<p>"Get up and come with me."</p> - -<p>"What for?"</p> - -<p>"Get up and come, Laura."</p> - -<p>"Where, Anna?"</p> - -<p>"Get up and come," said Anna, implacably.</p> - -<p>"I won't obey you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you'll come," cried Anna, with an imperious -smile.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You're mistaken. I'll not come."</p> - -<p>"You'll come, Laura."</p> - -<p>"No, Anna."</p> - -<p>"You're very much afraid of me then?"</p> - -<p>"Here I am. I'll go where you like," Laura -said, proudly, resenting the imputation of fear. -And she began to dress.</p> - -<p>Anna waited for her, standing up. Laura -proceeded calmly with her toilet. But when she -came to put on her frock of white wool, Anna had -a mad access of rage, and covered her face with -her hands, to shut out the sight. Four hours ago, -only four hours ago, in that same frock, Laura -had been kissed by Cesare. Her sister seemed -to her the living image of treachery.</p> - -<p>Laura moved about the room as if she was -hunting for something.</p> - -<p>"What are you doing?" asked Anna.</p> - -<p>"I am looking for something."</p> - -<p>And she drew from under a pocket-handkerchief -her bunch of white roses.</p> - -<p>"Throw those flowers away," cried Anna.</p> - -<p>"And why?"</p> - -<p>"Throw those flowers away, Laura, Laura."</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"By our Lady of Sorrows, I beseech you, -throw them away."</p> - -<p>"You have threatened me. You have no -further right to beseech me," said Laura quietly, -putting the flowers in her belt.</p> - -<p>"Oh God!" cried Anna, pressing her hands to -her temples.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Let us go," she said at last.</p> - -<p>Laura followed her across the silent house to -her room.</p> - -<p>"Sit down," said Anna.</p> - -<p>"I am waiting," said Laura.</p> - -<p>"Then you don't understand?" asked Anna, -smiling.</p> - -<p>"No—I understand nothing."</p> - -<p>"Can't you imagine?"</p> - -<p>"I have no imagination."</p> - -<p>"And your heart—does your heart tell you -nothing, Laura? Laura, Laura, does your -conscience tell you nothing?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing," said the other quietly, lifting up -the rich blonde hair behind her ears. The same -gesture that Anna had seen her make in Cesare's -room.</p> - -<p>"Laura, you are my husband's mistress," Anna -said, raising her arms towards heaven.</p> - -<p>"You're mad, Anna."</p> - -<p>"My husband's mistress, Laura."</p> - -<p>"You're mad."</p> - -<p>"Oh, liar, liar! Disloyal and vile woman, who -has not even the courage of her love!" cried -Anna, starting up, with flaming eyes.</p> - -<p>"Beware, Anna, beware. Strong language at a -moment like this is dangerous. Say what you've -got to say clearly; but don't insult me. Don't -insult me, because your diseased imagination -happens to be excited. Do you understand?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, heavens, heavens!" exclaimed Anna.</p> - -<p>"But you can see for yourself, you're mad. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> -You see, you have nothing to say to justify your -insults."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Madonna, Madonna, give me strength," -prayed Anna, wringing her hands.</p> - -<p>"Do you see?" asked Laura. "You've called -me here to vilify my innocence."</p> - -<p>"Laura," said poor Anna, trembling, "Laura, -it's no guess of mine, no inference, that you are -my husband's mistress. I have not read it in any -anonymous letter. No servant has told me it. -In such a case as this no one has a right to -believe an anonymous letter or a servant's denunciation. -One cannot on such grounds withdraw -one's respect from a person whom one -loves."</p> - -<p>"Well, Anna."</p> - -<p>"But I have seen, I have seen," she cried, prey -to so violent an emotion that it seemed to her as -if the thing she had seen was visible before her -again.</p> - -<p>"What have you seen?" asked Laura, suddenly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, horrible, horrible," cried Anna, remembering -her vision.</p> - -<p>"What have you seen?" repeated Laura, -seizing Anna's arm.</p> - -<p>"Oh, what a dreadful thing, what a dreadful -thing," she sobbed, covering her face with her hands.</p> - -<p>But Laura was herself consumed with anger -and pain; and she drew Anna's hands from her -face, and insisted, "Now—at this very moment—you -have got to tell me what you have seen. Do -you understand?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> - -<p>And the other, turning pale at her threatening -tone, replied: "You wish to know what I have -seen, Laura? And you ask me in a rage of -offended innocence, of wounded virtue? You are -angry, Laura? Angry—you? What right have -you to be angry, or to speak to me as you have -done? Aren't you afraid? Have you no fear, -no suspicions, nothing? You threaten me; you -tell me I am mad. You want to know what I -have seen; and you are haughty because you -deem yourself secure, and me a madwoman. But, -to be secure, you should close the doors behind -you when you go to an assignation. When you -are speaking of love, and kissing, to be secure you -should close the doors, Laura, close the doors."</p> - -<p>"I don't understand you," murmured Laura, -very pale.</p> - -<p>"This evening, at nine o'clock, when you were -in Cesare's room—I came home suddenly—you -weren't expecting me—you were alone, secure—and -I saw through the door——"</p> - -<p>"What?" demanded the other, with bowed -head.</p> - -<p>"As much as can be seen and heard. -Remember."</p> - -<p>Laura fell into a chair.</p> - -<p>"Why have you done this? Why? Why?" -asked Anna.</p> - -<p>Laura did not answer.</p> - -<p>"Don't you dare to answer? Oh, see how -base you are! See how perfidious you are. What -manner of woman are you? Why did you do it?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Because I love Cesare."</p> - -<p>"O Lord, Lord!" cried Anna, breaking into -desperate sobs.</p> - -<p>"Don't you know it? Haven't your eyes seen -it? haven't your ears heard it? Do you imagine -that a woman such as I am goes into a man's -room if she doesn't love him! That she lets -him kiss her, that she kisses him, unless she -loves him! What more have you to ask! I love -Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet," said Anna.</p> - -<p>"And Cesare loves me," Laura went on.</p> - -<p>"Be quiet. You are my sister. You are a -young girl. Don't speak such an infamy. Be -quiet. Don't say that you and Cesare are two -monsters."</p> - -<p>"You have seen us together. I love Cesare, -and he loves me."</p> - -<p>"Monstrous, infamous!"</p> - -<p>"It may be infamous, but it is so."</p> - -<p>"But don't you realise what you are doing! -Don't you feel that it is infamous; Don't you -understand how dreadful your offence is! Am I -not your sister—I whom you are betraying!"</p> - -<p>"I loved Cesare from the beginning. You betrayed -me."</p> - -<p>"The excuse of guilt! I loved him, I love -him. You are betraying me."</p> - -<p>"You love him stupidly, and bore him; I love -him well."</p> - -<p>"He's a married man."</p> - -<p>"He was married by force, Anna."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p> - -<p>"He is my husband."</p> - -<p>"Oh, very slightly!"</p> - -<p>"Laura!" exclaimed Anna, wounded to the -quick, she who was all wounds.</p> - -<p>"I'm not blind," said Laura, tranquilly. "I can -take in the situation."</p> - -<p>"But your conscience! But your religion! -But your modesty, which is soiled by such an -atrocious sin!"</p> - -<p>"I'm not your husband's mistress, you know -that yourself."</p> - -<p>"But you love him. You thrill at the touch -of his hand. You kiss him. You tell him you -love him."</p> - -<p>"Well, all that doesn't signify that I'm his -mistress."</p> - -<p>"The sin is as great."</p> - -<p>"No, it's not as great, Anna."</p> - -<p>"It's a deadly sin merely to love another -woman's husband."</p> - -<p>"But I'm not his mistress. Be exact."</p> - -<p>"A change of words; the sin is the same."</p> - -<p>"Words have their importance; they are the -symbols of facts."</p> - -<p>"It's an infamy," said Anna.</p> - -<p>"Anna, don't insult me."</p> - -<p>"Insult you! Do you pretend that that pretty -pure face of yours is capable of blushing under an -insult? Can your chaste brow be troubled by an -insult? You have trampled all innocence and all -modesty under foot—you, the daughter of my -mother! You have broken your sister's heart—you, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> -the daughter of the same mother! And now -you say that I insult you. Good!"</p> - -<p>"You have no right to insult me."</p> - -<p>"I haven't the right? Before such treachery? -I haven't the right? Before such dishonour?"</p> - -<p>"If you will call upon your memory, you will see -that you haven't the right."</p> - -<p>"What do you wish me to remember?"</p> - -<p>"A single circumstance. Once upon a time, -you, a girl like me, abandoned your home, and -eloped with a man you loved, a nobody, a poor -obscure nobody. Then you deceived me, Cesare, -and everybody else. By that elopement you dishonoured -the graves of your father and mother, -and you dishonoured your name which is also -mine."</p> - -<p>"Oh, heavens, heavens, heavens!" cried Anna.</p> - -<p>"You passed a whole day out of Naples, in an -inn at Pompeii, alone the whole day with a man -you loved, in a private room."</p> - -<p>"I wasn't Giustino Morelli's mistress."</p> - -<p>"Exactly. Nor am I Cesare Dias'."</p> - -<p>"I wasn't Giustino Morelli's mistress," repeated -Anna.</p> - -<p>"I wasn't behind the door, as you were, to see -the truth."</p> - -<p>"Oh, cruel, wicked sister—cruel and wicked!"</p> - -<p>"And please to have the fairness to remember -that on that day Cesare Dias rushed to your -rescue. In charity, without saying a word to -reproach you, he brought you back to the home -you had deserted. In charity, without insulting -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> -you, I opened my arms to welcome you. In -charity we nursed you through your long illness, -and never once did we reproach you. You see, -you see, you're unjust and ungrateful."</p> - -<p>"But you have wounded me in my love, Laura. -But I adore Cesare, and I am horribly jealous of -him. I can't banish the thought of your love for -him; I can remember nothing but your kisses. I -feel as if I were going mad. Oh, Laura, Laura, -you who were so pure and beautiful, you who are -worthy of a young man's love, why do you throw -away your life and your honour for Cesare?"</p> - -<p>"But you? Don't you also love him? You -too are young. Yet didn't you love him so -desperately that you would gladly have died, if -he hadn't married you? I have followed your -example, that is all. As you love him, I love -him, Anna. We are sisters, and the same passion -burns in our veins."</p> - -<p>"Don't say that, don't say it. My love will -last as long as my life, Laura."</p> - -<p>"And so will mine."</p> - -<p>"Don't say it, don't say it."</p> - -<p>"Until I die, Anna."</p> - -<p>"Don't say it."</p> - -<p>"My blood is like yours; my nerves are like -yours; my heart is as ardent as yours. My soul -is consumed with love, as yours is. We are the -daughters of the same parents. Cesare has fascinated -you, Cesare has fascinated me."</p> - -<p>"Oh, heavens, heavens! I must kill myself -then. I must die!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Bah!" said Laura, with a movement of -disdain.</p> - -<p>"I will kill myself, Laura."</p> - -<p>"Those who say it don't do it."</p> - -<p>"You are deceiving yourself, wicked, scornful -creature."</p> - -<p>"Those who say it don't do it," repeated Laura, -laughing bitterly.</p> - -<p>"But understand me! I can't endure this -betrayal. Understand! I—I alone have the -right to love Cesare. He is mine. I won't give -him up to anybody. My only refuge, my only -comfort, my only consolation is in my love. Don't -you see that I have nothing else?"</p> - -<p>"Luigi Caracciolo loves you, though," said Laura, -smiling.</p> - -<p>"What are you saying to me?"</p> - -<p>"You might fall in love with him."</p> - -<p>"You propose an infamy to me."</p> - -<p>"But consider. I love Cesare; Cesare loves me -and not you. But Caracciolo loves you. Well, -why not fall in love with him?"</p> - -<p>"Because it would be infamous."</p> - -<p>"You are beginning to insult me again, Anna. -It is late. I am going away."</p> - -<p>"No, don't go yet, Laura. Think how terrible -this thing is for me. Listen to me, Laura, and -call to aid all your kindness. I have insulted you, -it is true; but you can't know what jealousy is -like, you can't imagine the unendurable torture of -it. Call to aid your goodness, Laura. Think—we -were nourished at the same breast, the same -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> -mother's hands caressed us. Think—we have -made our journey in life together. Laura, Laura, -my sister! You have betrayed me; you have -outraged me; in the past seven hours I have -suffered all that it is humanly possible to suffer; -you can't know what jealousy is like. Don't be -impatient. Listen to me. It is a terrible moment. -Don't laugh. I am not exaggerating. Listen to -me carefully. Laura, all that you have done, I -forget it, I forgive it. Do you hear? I forgive -you. I am sure your heart is good. You will -understand all the affection and all the meekness -there are in my forgiveness."</p> - -<p>And as if it were she who were the guilty one, -she knelt before her sister, taking her hand, kissing -it, bathing it with her tears. Laura, seeing this -woman whom she had so cruelly wronged kneel -before her, closed her eyes, and for a moment was -intensely pale. But her soul was strong; she was -able to conquer her emotion. For an instant she -was silent; then, coming to the supreme question -of their existence, she demanded: "And what do -you expect in exchange for this pardon?" She -had the air of according a favour.</p> - -<p>"Laura, Laura, you must be good and great, -since I have forgiven you."</p> - -<p>"What is your price for this forgiveness?"</p> - -<p>"You must not love Cesare any more. Bravely -you must cast that impure love out of your soul, -which it degrades. You must not love him any more. -And then, not only will my pardon be complete -and absolute, but you will find in me the fondest -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> -and tenderest of sisters. I will devote my life to -proving to you how much I love you. My sole -desire will be to make you happy; I will be your -best and surest friend. But you must be good -and strong, Laura; you must remember that you -are my sister; you must forget Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Anna, I cannot."</p> - -<p>"Listen, listen. Don't answer yet. Don't -decide yet. Don't speak the last word yet, the -awful word. Think, Laura, it is your future, it is -your life, that you are staking upon this love: a -black future, a fatal certainty of death, if you -persist in it. But, on the contrary, if you forget -it—if a chaste and innocent impulse of affection -for me persuades you to put it from you—what -peace, what calm! You will find another man, a -worthier man, a man of your own loftiness of -spirit, who will understand you, who will make -you happy, whom you can love with all your soul, -in the consciousness of having done your duty. -You will be a happy wife, your husband will be -a happy man, you will be a mother, you will have -children—you will have children, you! But you -must not love Cesare any more."</p> - -<p>"Anna, I can't help it."</p> - -<p>"Laura, don't make your mind up yet. For -pity's sake, hear me. We must find a way out of -it, an escape. You will travel, you will make a -journey, a long journey, abroad; that will interest -you. I'll ask Cousin Scibilia to go with you. -She has nothing to detain her; she's a widow; -she will go. You will travel. You can't think -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> -how travelling relieves one's sufferings. You will -see new countries, beautiful countries, where your -mind will rise high above the petty, every-day -miseries of life. Laura, Laura, see how I pray -you, see how I implore you. We have the same -blood in our veins. We are children of the -same mother. You must not love Cesare any -more."</p> - -<p>"Anna, I can't help it."</p> - -<p>Anna moved towards her sister; but when she -found herself face to face with her, an impulse of -horror repelled her. She went to the window -and stood there, gazing out into the street, into -the great shadow of the night. When she came -back, her face was cold, austere, self-contained. -Her sister felt that she could read a menace -in it.</p> - -<p>"Is that your last word?" asked Anna.</p> - -<p>"My last word."</p> - -<p>"You don't think you can change?"</p> - -<p>"I don't think so."</p> - -<p>"You know what you are doing?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know."</p> - -<p>"And you face the danger?"</p> - -<p>"Where is the danger?" asked Laura, rising.</p> - -<p>"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid," said Anna, -carrying her pocket-handkerchief to her lips and -biting it. "I ask you if it doesn't strike you as -dangerous that two women such as I, Anna Dias, -and you, Laura Acquaviva, should live together in -the same house and love the same man with the -same passion?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It is certainly very dangerous," said Laura -slowly, standing up, and looking into her sister's -eyes.</p> - -<p>"Leave me my husband, Laura," cried Anna, -impetuously.</p> - -<p>"Take him back—if you can. But you can't, -you know. You never could."</p> - -<p>"You're a monster. Go away," cried Anna, -clenching her teeth, clenching her fists, driving -her nails into her flesh.</p> - -<p>"It's at your bidding that I'm here. I came -to show that I wasn't afraid of you, that's all."</p> - -<p>"Go away, monster, monster, monster!"</p> - -<p>"Kill me, if you like; but don't call me by -that name," cried Laura, at last exasperated.</p> - -<p>"You deserve that I should kill you, it is true. -By all the souls that hear me, by the souls of our -dead parents, by the Madonna, who, with them, -is shuddering in heaven at your crime, you deserve -that I should kill you!"</p> - -<p>"But Cesare would weep for me," taunted -Laura, again mistress of herself.</p> - -<p>"It is true," rejoined Anna, icily. "Go away -then. Go at once."</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Anna."</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Laura."</p> - -<p>Leisurely, collectedly, she turned her back upon -her sister, and moved away, erect and supple in -her white frock, with her light regular footstep. -Her hand turned the knob of the door, but on the -threshold she paused, involuntarily, and looked -at Anna, who stood in the middle of the room -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> -with her head bowed, her cheeks colourless, her -eyes expressionless, her lips violet and slightly -parted, testifying to her fatigue. Laura's hesitation -was but momentary. Shrugging her shoulders at -that spectacle of sorrow, she closed the door -behind her, and went off through the darkness to -her own room.</p> - -<p>Anna was alone. And within herself she was -offering up thanks to the Madonna for having that -night saved her from a terrible temptation. For, -from the dreadful scene that had just passed, -only one thought remained to her. She had -besought her sister not to love Cesare any more, -promising in exchange all the devotion of her -soul and body; and Laura had thrice responded, -obstinately, blindly, "I can't help it." Well, -when for the third time she heard those words, a -sudden, immense fury of jealousy had seized her; -suddenly a great red cloud seemed to fall before -her eyes, and the redness came from a wound in -her sister's white throat, a wound which she had -inflicted; and the pale girl lay at her feet lifeless, -unable for ever to say again that she loved Cesare -and would not cease to love him. Ah, for a -minute, for a minute, murder had breathed in -Anna's poor distracted heart, and she had wished -to kill the daughter of her mother! Now, with -spent eyes, feeling herself lost and dying at the -bottom of an abyss, she uttered a deep prayer of -thanksgiving to God, for that He had swept the -red cloud away, for that He had allowed her to -suffer without avenging herself. Slowly, slowly -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> -she sank upon her knees, she clasped her hands, -she said over all the old simple prayers of her -childhood, the holy prayers of innocence, praying -that still, through all the hopeless misery that -awaited her, she might ever be what she had been -to-night, a woman capable of suffering everything, -incapable of revenge. And in this pious longing -her soul seemed to be lifted up, far above all -earthly pain.</p> - -<p>All her womanly goodness and weakness were -mingled in her renunciation of revenge.</p> - -<p>The violent energy which she had shown in her -talk with Laura had given place to a mortal lassitude. -She remained on her knees, and continued -to murmur the words of her orisons, but now she -no longer understood their meaning. Her head -was whirling, as in the beginning of a swoon. -She dragged herself with difficulty to her bed, and -threw herself upon it, inert as a dead body, in -utter physical exhaustion.</p> - -<p>Laura had undone her. The whole long scene -between them repeated itself over and over in her -mind; again she passed from tears to anger, from -jealousy to pleading affection; again she saw her -sister's pure white face, and the cynical smile that -disfigured it, and its hard incapacity for pity, fear, -or contrition. Laura had overthrown her, conquered -her, undone her. Anna had gone to her, -strong in her outraged rights, strong in her -offended love, strong in her knowledge of her -sister's treachery; she had expected to see that -proud brow bend before her, red with shame; she -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> -had expected to see those fair hands clasped and -trembling, imploring pardon; she had expected -to hear that clear voice utter words of penitence -and promises of atonement. But far from that, -far from accepting the punishment she had earned, -the guilty woman had boldly defended her guilt; -she had refused with fierce courage to give way; -she had clung to her infamy, challenging her -sister to do her worst. Anna understood that not -one word that she had spoken had made the least -impression upon Laura's heart, had stirred in it -the faintest movement of generosity or affection; -she understood that from beginning to end she -had failed and blundered, knowing neither how to -punish nor how to forgive.</p> - -<p>"I did not kill her. She has beaten me!" she -thought.</p> - -<p>And yet Anna was in the right; and Laura, by -all human and all moral law, was in the wrong. To -love a married man, to love her sister's husband, -almost her own brother! Anna was right before -God, before mankind, before Cesare and Laura -themselves. If, when her sister had refused to -surrender her husband to her, she had killed her, -no human being would have blamed her for it.</p> - -<p>"And yet I did not kill her. She has beaten -me!"</p> - -<p>She tried to find the cause of her defeat, overwhelmed -by the despair with which good people -see wrong and injustice triumph. She sought for -the cause of her defeat, but she could find none, -none. She was right—according to all laws, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> -human and divine, she was in the right; she alone -was right. Oh, her agony was insupportable, -more and more dreadful as she got farther from -the fact, and could see it in its full hideousness, -examine and analyse it in its full infamy.</p> - -<p>"Beaten, beaten, beaten! bitterly worsted and -overwhelmed!"</p> - -<p>For the third time in her life she had been -utterly defeated. She had not known how to -defend herself; she had not known how to assert -her rights, and conquer. On that fatal day at -Pompeii, when Giustino Morelli had abandoned -her; on that fatal night at Sorrento, when Cesare -Dias had proposed his mephistophelian bargain to -her, whereby she was to renounce love, dignity, -and her every prerogative as a woman and a wife; -at Pompeii and at Sorrento she had been worsted -by those who were in the wrong, by Giustino -Morelli who could not love, by Cesare Dias who -would not.</p> - -<p>And now again to-night—to-night, for the -third time—betrayed by her husband and her -sister—she had not known how to conquer. At -Naples, as at Pompeii, as at Sorrento, she who -was in the right had been defeated by one who -was in the wrong.</p> - -<p>"But why? why?" she asked herself, in -despair.</p> - -<p>She did not know. It was contrary to all -reason and all justice. She could only see the -fact, clear, cruel, inexorable.</p> - -<p>It was destiny. A secret power fought against -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> -her, and baffled every effort she attempted. It -was a fatality which she bore within herself, a -fatality which it was useless to resist. All she -could wish for now was that the last word might -be spoken soon.</p> - -<p>"I must seek the last word," she thought.</p> - -<p>She rose from her bed, and looked at the clock. -It was four in the morning.</p> - -<p>She went to her writing-desk, and, leaning her -head upon her hand, tried to think what she had -come there to do. Then she took a sheet of -paper, and wrote a few words upon it. But when -she read them over, they displeased her; she tore -the paper up, and threw it away. She wrote and -tore up three more notes; at last she was contented -with this one:</p> - -<p>"Cesare, I must say something to you at once. -As soon as you read these words, no matter at -what hour of the night or morning, come to my -room.—<span class="smcap">Anna.</span>"</p> - -<p>She sealed the note in an envelope, and -addressed it to her husband. She left her room, -to go to his. The door was locked; she could -see no light, hear no sound within. She slipped -the letter through the crack above the threshold.</p> - -<p>"Cesare shall speak the last word," she -thought.</p> - -<p>She returned to her own room, and threw herself -upon her bed to watch and wait for him.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> - -</div> - - -<h2>V.</h2> - -<p>Anna got up and opened her window, to let in -the sun, but it was a grey morning, grey in sky -and sea. Lead-coloured clouds rested on the -hill of Posillipo; and the wide Neapolitan landscape -looked as if it had been covered with ashes. -Few people were in the streets; and the palm in -the middle of the Piazza Vittoria waved its long -branches languidly in the wintry breeze.</p> - -<p>Her eyes were burning and her eyelids were -heavy. She went into her dressing-room and -bathed her face in cold water. Then she combed -her hair and fastened it up with a big gold pin. -And then she put on a gown of black wool, richly -trimmed with jet, a morning street costume. -Was she going out? She did not know. She -dressed herself in obedience to the necessity which -women feel at certain hours of the day to occupy -themselves with their toilets. But when she -came to fasten her brooch, a clover leaf set with -black pearls, that Laura had given her for a -wedding-present, she discovered that one of the -pearls was gone. The clover-leaf brings luck, but -now this one was broken, and its power was gone.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></p> - -<p>Eleven o'clock struck, and somebody tapped -discreetly at the door. She could not find her -voice, to answer.</p> - -<p>The knock was repeated.</p> - -<p>"Come in," she said feebly.</p> - -<p>Cesare entered, calm and composed, carrying -his hat and ebony walking-stick in his hand.</p> - -<p>"Good-morning. Are you going out?" he -asked tranquilly.</p> - -<p>"No. I don't know," she answered, with a -vague gesture.</p> - -<p>All her nerves were tingling, as she looked at -the traitor's handsome, wasted face, a face so quiet -and smiling.</p> - -<p>"You had something to say to me?" he -reminded her, wrinkling his brow a little.</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"I came home late. I didn't want to disturb -you," he said, producing a cigarette, and asking -permission with a glance to light it.</p> - -<p>"You would not have disturbed me."</p> - -<p>"I suppose it's nothing of much importance."</p> - -<p>"It's a thing of great importance, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"As usual," he said, with the shadow of a -smile.</p> - -<p>"I swear to you by the memory of my mother -that nothing is more important."</p> - -<p>"Goodness gracious! Act three, scene four!" -he exclaimed ironically.</p> - -<p>"Scene last," she said, dully, tearing a few -beads from her dress, and fingering them.</p> - -<p>"So much the better, if we are near the end. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> -The play was rather long, my dear." He was -tapping his boot with his walking-stick.</p> - -<p>"We will cut it short, Cesare. I have a favour -to ask of you. Will you grant it?"</p> - -<p>"Ask, oh lovely lady; and in spite of the fact -that last night you closed your door upon me, -here I am, ready to serve you."</p> - -<p>"I have a favour to ask, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Ask it, then, before I go out."</p> - -<p>"I want to make a long journey with you—to -be gone a year."</p> - -<p>"A second honeymoon? The like was never -known."</p> - -<p>"A journey of a year, do you understand? -Take me as your travelling companion, your -friend, your servant. For a year, away from here, -far away."</p> - -<p>"Taking with us our sister, our governess, our -dog, our cat, and the whole menagerie?"</p> - -<p>"We two alone," she said.</p> - -<p>"Ah," said he.</p> - -<p>"What is your decision?"</p> - -<p>"I will think about it."</p> - -<p>"No. You must decide at once."</p> - -<p>"What's the hurry? Are we threatened with -an epidemic?"</p> - -<p>"Decide now."</p> - -<p>"Then I decide—no," he said.</p> - -<p>"And why?" she asked, turning pale.</p> - -<p>"Because I won't."</p> - -<p>"Tell me your reason."</p> - -<p>"I don't wish to travel."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You have always enjoyed travelling."</p> - -<p>"Well, I enjoy it no more. I am tired, I am -old, I will stay at home."</p> - -<p>"I implore you, let us go away, far from here."</p> - -<p>"But why do you want to go away?"</p> - -<p>"Listen. Don't ask me. Say yes."</p> - -<p>"Why do you want to go away, Anna?"</p> - -<p>"Because, I want to go. Do me the favour."</p> - -<p>"Is my lady flying from some danger that -threatens her virtue? From some unhappy love?"</p> - -<p>"There's something more than my virtue in -danger. I am flying from an unhappy love, -Cesare," she said gravely, shutting her eyes.</p> - -<p>"Heavens! And am I to mix myself up in -these tragical complications? No, Anna, no, -I sha'n't budge."</p> - -<p>"Is there no prayer that can move you. Will -you always answer no?"</p> - -<p>"I shall always say no."</p> - -<p>"Even if I begged you at the point of death?"</p> - -<p>"Fortunately your health is excellent," he rejoined, -smiling slightly.</p> - -<p>"We may all die—from one moment to another," -she answered, simply. "Let us go away -together, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"I have said no, and I mean no, Anna. Don't -try to change me. You know it's useless."</p> - -<p>"Then will you grant me another favour? This -one you will grant."</p> - -<p>"Let's hear it."</p> - -<p>"Let us go and live alone in the palace in Via -Gerolimini."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p> - -<p>"In that ugly house?"</p> - -<p>"Let us live there alone together."</p> - -<p>"Alone? How do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Alone, you and I."</p> - -<p>"Without Laura?"</p> - -<p>"Without Laura."</p> - -<p>"Ah," he said.</p> - -<p>She looked at him pleadingly, and in her brown -eyes he must have been able to read the sorrowful -truth. But he had no pity; he would not spare -her the bitter confession of it.</p> - -<p>"Be frank," he said, with some severity. "You -wish to separate from your sister!"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"And why? Tell me the reason."</p> - -<p>"I can't tell you. I wish to separate from -Laura."</p> - -<p>"When?"</p> - -<p>"At once. To-day."</p> - -<p>"Indeed? Have you had a quarrel? I'll be -peacemaker."</p> - -<p>"I doubt it," she said, with a strange smile.</p> - -<p>"If you'll tell me what you've quarrelled about, -I'll make peace between you."</p> - -<p>"But why do you ask these questions and make -these offers? I want to separate from my sister. -That is all."</p> - -<p>"And I don't wish to," he said, looking coldly -into his wife's eyes.</p> - -<p>"You don't wish to be parted from Laura!" she -cried, feeling her feet giving way beneath her.</p> - -<p>"I don't indeed."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Then I will go away myself, she cried, her -brain reeling.</p> - -<p>"Do as you like," he answered, calmly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, heaven help me," she murmured, under -her breath, staggering, losing all her strength.</p> - -<p>"Now we have come to the fainting-fit," said -Cesare, looking at her scornfully, "and so will end -this scene of stupid jealousy."</p> - -<p>"What jealousy! Who has spoken of jealousy?" -she asked haughtily.</p> - -<p>"Must I inform you that you have done nothing -else for the past half-hour! It strikes me that -you have lost the little good sense you ever had. -And I give you notice that I'm not going to make -myself ridiculous on your account."</p> - -<p>"You wish to stay with Laura!"</p> - -<p>"Not only I, but you too. For the sake of the -world's opinion, as well as for our own sakes, we -can't desert the girl. She's been confided to our -protection. It would be a scandal which I'll not -permit you to make. If I have to suffer a hundred -deaths, I'll not allow you to make a scandal. -Do you understand!"</p> - -<p>She looked at him, changing colour, feeling that -her last hope was escaping her.</p> - -<p>"And then," he went on, "I don't know your -reasons for not wishing to live any longer with -your sister. She's good, she's well-behaved, she's -serious; she gives you no trouble; you have no -right to find fault with her. It's one of your -whims—it's your everlasting desire to be unhappy. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> -Anyhow, your idiotic caprice will soon enough be -gratified. Laura will soon be married."</p> - -<p>"Do you wish Laura to marry!"</p> - -<p>"I wish it earnestly."</p> - -<p>"You'll be glad of it!"</p> - -<p>"Most glad," he answered, smiling.</p> - -<p>Ah, in the days of her womanly innocence, -before her mind had been opened to the atrocious -revelations of their treason, she would not have -understood the import of that answer and that -smile; but she knew now the whole depth of -human wickedness. He smiled, and curled his -handsome black moustaches. Anna lost her head.</p> - -<p>"Then you are more infamous than Laura," she -cried.</p> - -<p>"The vocabulary of Othello," he cried, calmly. -"But, you know, it has been proved that Othello -was epileptic."</p> - -<p>"And he killed Desdemona," said Anna.</p> - -<p>"Does it strike you that I look like Desdemona?"</p> - -<p>"Not you, not you."</p> - -<p>"And who then?"</p> - -<p>"Laura."</p> - -<p>"Your folly is becoming dangerous, Anna."</p> - -<p>"Imminently, terribly dangerous, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Fortunately you take it out in words, not in -actions," he concluded, smiling.</p> - -<p>She wrung her hands.</p> - -<p>"Last night Laura owed her life to a miracle," -she said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But what has been going on here?" he exclaimed, -agitated, rising to his feet. "And where -is Laura?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, fear nothing, fear nothing on her account. -I've not harmed her. She's alive. She's well. -She's very well. No wrinkle troubles her beauty, -no anxiety disturbs her mind. Fear nothing. -She is a sacred person. Your love protects her. -Listen, Cesare; she was here last night alone in -this room with me; and I had over her the right -given me by heaven, given me by men; and I <em>did -not kill her</em>."</p> - -<p>Cesare had turned slightly pale; that was all.</p> - -<p>"And if it is permitted to talk in your own -high-sounding rhetoric, what was the ground of -your right to kill her?" he asked, looking at the -handle of his walking-stick, and emphasising the -disdainful <em>you</em>.<a name="FNanchor_F_6" id="FNanchor_F_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_F_6" class="fnanchor">[F]</a></p> - -<p>"Laura has betrayed me. She's in love with -you."</p> - -<p>"Nothing but this was lacking! That Laura -should be in love with me! I'm glad to hear it. -You are sure of it? It's an important matter for -my vanity. Are you sure of it?"</p> - -<p>"Don't jeer at me, Cesare. You don't realise -what you are doing. Don't smile like that. Don't -drive me to extremes."</p> - -<p>"There are two of you in love with me—for I -suppose you still love me, don't you? It's a family -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> -misfortune. But since you both adore me, it's -probably not my fault."</p> - -<p>"Cesare, Cesare!"</p> - -<p>"And confess that I did nothing to win you."</p> - -<p>"You have betrayed me, Cesare. You are in -love with Laura."</p> - -<p>"Are you sure of it?"</p> - -<p>"Sure, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"But bear in mind that certainties are somewhat -rare in this world. For the past few minutes -I've been examining myself, to discover if indeed -I had in my soul a guilty passion for Laura. -Perhaps I am mad about her, without knowing it. -But you, who are an expert in these affairs, you -are sure of it. Have the goodness to explain to -me, oh, passionate Signora Dias, in what manner -I have betrayed you, loving your sister. Describe -to me the whole blackness of my treason. Tell -me in what my—infamy—consists. Wasn't it -infamy you called it? I'm not learned in the -language of the heart."</p> - -<p>"Oh, God! oh, God!" sobbed Anna, her face -buried in her hands, horrified at what she heard -and saw.</p> - -<p>"I hope we've not to pass the morning invoking -the Lord, the Virgin, and the Saints. What do -you suppose they care for your idiocy, Anna? -They are too wise; and I should be wiser if I cared -nothing for it, either. But when your rhetoric casts -a slur upon others, it can't be overlooked. I beg -you, Signora Dias, to do your husband the kindness -of stating your accusations precisely. Set -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> -forth the whole atrocity of his conduct. I fold -my hands, and sit here on this chair like a king -on his judgment-seat. I wait, only adding that -you have already used up a good deal of my -patience."</p> - -<p>"But has Laura told you nothing?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing, my dear lady."</p> - -<p>"Where is she?"</p> - -<p>"She's gone to church, I hear."</p> - -<p>"Quietly gone to church?"</p> - -<p>"Do you fancy that all women dance in perpetual -convulsions to the tune of their sentiments, -Signora Dias? No, for the happiness of men, no. -Our dear and wise Minerva has gone to mass, for -to-day is Sunday."</p> - -<p>"With that horrible sin on her conscience! -Does she think she can lie even to God? But it's -a sacrilege."</p> - -<p>"Ah, we're to have a mystical drama, a passion-play -now, are we? Dear lady, I see that you have -nothing to say to me, and I make my adieux."</p> - -<p>He started to go, but she barred the way to -him.</p> - -<p>"Don't go, Cesare; don't leave me. Since you -will have it so, you shall hear from my lips, though -they tremble with horror in pronouncing it, the -story of your infamy. I will repeat it to you to-day -as I repeated it to Laura last night; and I hope it -may burn in your heart as it burns in mine. Ah, -you laugh; you have the boldness to laugh. You -treat this talk as a joke. You sneer at my anger. -You would like to get away from me. I annoy you. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> -My voice wearies you. And what I have to say to -you will perhaps bring a blush of shame even to your -face, corrupt man that you are. But you cannot -leave me. You are obliged to remain here. You -must give me an account of your betrayal. Ah, -don't smile, don't smile; that will do no good; -your smile can't turn me aside. I won't allow -you to leave me. Remember, Cesare, remember -what you did last evening. Remember and be -ashamed. Remember how cruel, how wicked, -how atrocious it was, what happened last evening -between you and my sister. Under my eyes -Cesare, and for long minutes, so that I could have -no doubt. I could not imagine that I was mad or -dreaming. I saw it all, my ears heard the words -you spoke, the sound of your kisses, your long -kisses. I could not doubt. Oh, how horrible it -is for a woman who loves to see the proof that she -is betrayed! What new, unknown capacities for -sorrow open in her soul! Oh, what have you -done to me, Cesare, you whom I adored! You -and my sister Laura, what have you done to me!"</p> - -<p>She fell into a chair, crushing her temples -between her hands.</p> - -<p>"Is it your habit to listen at doors? It's not -considered good form," said Cesare coldly.</p> - -<p>"Do you wish me to die, Cesare? How could -you forget that I loved you, that I had given you -my youth, my beauty, all my heart, all my soul, -that I adored you with every breath, that you -alone were the reason for my being? You have -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> -forgotten all this, forgotten that I live only for -you, my love—you have forgotten it?"</p> - -<p>"These sentiments do you honour, though -they're somewhat exaggerated. Buy a book of -manners, and learn that it's not the thing to listen -at doors."</p> - -<p>"It was my right to listen, do you understand? -I was defending my love, my happiness, my all; -but the terrible thing I saw has destroyed for -ever everything I cared for."</p> - -<p>"Did you really see such a terrible thing?" he -asked, smiling.</p> - -<p>"If I should live a thousand years, nothing -could blot it from my mind. Oh, I shall die, I -shall die; I can only forget it by dying."</p> - -<p>"You are suffering from cerebral dilatation. It -was nothing but a harmless scene of gallantry—it -was a jest, Anna."</p> - -<p>"Laura said that she loved you. I heard her."</p> - -<p>"Of course, girls of her age always say they're -in love."</p> - -<p>"She kissed you, Cesare. I saw her."</p> - -<p>"And what of that? Girls of her age are -fond of kissing. They're none the worse for it."</p> - -<p>"She was in your arms, Cesare, and for so long -a time that to me it seemed a century."</p> - -<p>"It's not a bad place, you know, Signora Dias," -he responded, smiling.</p> - -<p>"Oh, how low, how monstrous! And you, -Cesare, you told her that you loved her. I heard -you."</p> - -<p>"A man always loves a little the woman that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span> -is with him. Besides, I couldn't tell her that I -hated her; it would scarcely have been polite. I -know my book of manners. There's at least one -member of our family who preserves good form."</p> - -<p>"Cesare, you kissed her."</p> - -<p>"I'd defy you to have done otherwise, if you'd -been a man. You don't understand these -matters."</p> - -<p>"On the lips, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"It's my habit. It's not a custom of my invention, -either. It's rather old. I suspect it -took its rise with Adam and Eve."</p> - -<p>"But she's a young girl, an innocent young -girl, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"Girls are not so innocent as they used to be, -Anna. I assure you the world is changing."</p> - -<p>"She is my sister, Cesare."</p> - -<p>"That's a circumstance quite without importance. -Relationship counts for nothing."</p> - -<p>She looked at him with an expression of -intense disgust.</p> - -<p>"You, then, Cesare," she said, "have no sense -of the greatness of this infamy. She at least, -Laura, the other guilty person, turned pale, was -troubled, trembled with passion and with terror. -You—no! Here you have been for an hour -absolutely imperturable; not a shade of emotion -has crossed your brazen face; your voice hasn't -changed; you feel no fear, no love, no shame; -you are not even surprised. She at least -shuddered and cried out; she is an Acquaviva! -It is true that, though she saw my anger and my -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> -despair, she had neither pity nor compunction, -but her passion for you, at least, was undisguised. -She had feeling, strength, will. But you—no. -You, like her, indeed, could see me weep my -heart out, could see me convulsed by the most -unendurable agony, and have not an ounce of -pity for me; but your hardness does not spring, -like hers, from love; no, no; from icy indifference. -You are as heartless as a tombstone. She, at -least, has the courage, the audacity, the effrontery -of her wickedness; she declares boldly that she -loves you, that she adores you, that she will never -cease to love you, that she will always adore you. -She is my sister. In her heart there is the same -canker that is in mine—a canker from which we -are both dying. You—no! Love? Passion? -Not even an illusion. Nothing but a harmless -scene of gallantry! A half-hour of amusing -flirtation, without consequence! But what does -it mean, then, to say that we love? Is it a lie -that a man feels justified in telling any woman? -And what is a kiss? A fugitive contact of the -lips, immediately forgotten? So many false -kisses are given in the course of a day and night! -Nonsense, triviality, rubbish! It's bad form to -spy at doors; its exaggeration to call a thing -infamous; it's madness to be jealous. And the -sin that you have committed, instead of originating -in passion, which might in some degree excuse -it, you reduce to an every-day vulgarity, a commonplace -indecency; my sister becomes a vulgar -flirt, you a vulgar seducer, and I a vulgar termagant -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> -screaming out her morbid jealousy. The -whole affair falls into the mud. My sister's guilty -love, your caprice, my despair, all are in the mud, -among the most disgusting human garbage, where -there is no spiritual light, no cry of sorrow, where -everything is permissible, where the man expires -and the beast triumphs. Do you know what you -are, Cesare?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't know. But if you can tell me, I -shall be indebted for the favour."</p> - -<p>"You are a man without heart, without conscience; -a soul without greatness and without -enthusiasm; you are a lump of flesh, exhausted -by unworthy pleasures and morbid desires. You -are a ruin, in heart, in mind, in senses; you belong -to the class of men who are rotten; you fill me -with fright and with pity. I did not know that I -was giving my hand to a corpse scented with -heliotrope, that I was uniting my life to the -mummy of a gentleman, whose vitiated senses -could not be pleased by a young, beautiful, and -loving wife, but must crave her sister, her pure, -chaste, younger sister! Have you ever loved, -Cesare? Have you ever for a moment felt the -immensity of real love? In your selfishness you -have made an idol of yourself, an idol without -greatness. A thing without viscera, without -pulses, without emotion! You are corrupt, perverted, -depraved, even to the point of betraying -your wife who adores you, with her sister whom -you do not love! Ah, you are a coward, a -dastard; that's what you are, a dastard!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span></p> - -<p>She wrung her hands and beat her temples, -pacing the room as a madwoman paces her cell. -But not a tear fell from her eyes, not a sob issued -from her breast.</p> - -<p>He stood still, his face impenetrable; not one -of her reproaches had brought a trace of colour to -it. She threw herself upon a sofa, exhausted; -but her eyes still burned and her lips trembled.</p> - -<p>"Now that you have favoured me with so -amiable a definition of myself," said he, "permit -me to attempt one of you."</p> - -<p>His tone was so icy, he pronounced the words -so slowly, that Anna knew he was preparing a -tremendous insult. Instinctively, obeying the -blind anger of her love, she repeated, "You are -a dastard; that's what you are, a dastard."</p> - -<p>"My dear, you are a bore—that's what <em>you</em> -are."</p> - -<p>"What do you say?" she asked, not understanding.</p> - -<p>"You're a bore, my dear."</p> - -<p>The insult was so atrocious, that for the first -time in the course of their talk her eyes filled with -tears, and a sigh burst from her lips—lips that -were purple, like those of a dying child. It -seemed as if something had broken in her heart.</p> - -<p>"Nothing but a bore. I don't employ high-sounding -words, you see. I speak the plain truth. -You're a bore."</p> - -<p>Another sigh, a sigh of insupportable physical -pain, as if the hard word <em>bore</em> had cut her flesh, -like a knife.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You flatter yourself that you're a woman of -grand passions," he went on, after looking at his -watch, and giving a little start of surprise to see -how much time he had wasted here. "No? You -flatter yourself that you're a creature of impulse, -a woman with a fate, a woman destined to a tragic -end; and to satisfy this notion, you complicate -and embroil and muddle up your own existence, -and mortally bore those who are about you. With -your rhetoric, your tears, your sobs, your despair, -your interminable letters, your livid face and your -gray lips, you're enough to bore the very saints in -heaven."</p> - -<p>He pretended not to see her imploring eyes, -which had suddenly lost their anger, and were -craving mercy.</p> - -<p>"Remember all the stupidities you've committed -in the past four or five years," he went on, -"and all the annoyance you've given us. You -were a handsome girl, rich, with a good name. -You might have married any one of a dozen men -of your own age, your own rank, gentlemen, who -were in love with you. That would have been -sensible, orderly; you would have been as happy -as happy can be. But what! Anna Acquaviva, -the romantic heroine, condescend to be happy! -No, no. That were beneath her! So you had to -fancy yourself in love with a beggar whom you -couldn't marry."</p> - -<p>She made a gesture, as if to defend Giustino -Morelli.</p> - -<p>"Oh, did you really love him? Thanks for -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> -the compliment; you're charming this morning. -Passion, inequality of position, drama, flight into -Egypt, fortunately without a child—forgive the -impropriety, but it escaped me. Morelli, chancing -to be a decent fellow, Morelli ran away, poor -devil! and our heroine treated herself to the -luxury of a mortal illness. We, Laura, I, everybody, -were bored by the flight, bored by the -illness. The lesson was a severe one, and most -women would have been cured of their inclination -towards the theatrical, as well as of their scarlet -fever. But not so Anna Acquaviva. It didn't -matter to her that she had risked her reputation, -her honour; it didn't matter to her that she had -staked the name of her family; all this only -excited her imagination. And, behold, she begins -her second romance, her second drama, her second -tragedy, and enter upon the scene, to be bored to -death, Signor Cesare Dias!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Holy Virgin, help me," murmured Anna, -pressing her hands to her temples.</p> - -<p>"Dramatic love for Cesare Dias, an old man, a -man who has never gone in for passion, who doesn't -wish to go in for it, who is tired of all such bothersome -worries. Anna Acquaviva gives herself up -to an unrequited love, 'one of the most desolating -experiences of the soul'—that's a phrase I found -in one of your letters. Desolation, torture, spasms, -despair, bitterness, these are the words which our -ill-fated heroine, Anna Acquaviva, employs to depict -her condition to herself and to others. And -Cesare Dias, who had arranged his life in a way -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> -not to be bored and not to bore anyone, Cesare -Dias, who is an entirely common and ordinary -person, happy in his mediocrity, suddenly finds -himself against his will dragged upon the scene as -hero! He is the man of mysteries, the man who -will not love or who loves another, the superior -man, the neighbour of the stars. And nevertheless -we find a means of boring him."</p> - -<p>"Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare!" she said, beseeching -compassion.</p> - -<p>"Imbecile ought to be added to the name of -Cesare Dias. That's the title which I best deserve. -Only an imbecile—and I was one for half-an-hour—could -have ceded to your sentimental hysterics. -I was an imbecile. But to let you die, to complete -your tragedy of unrequited love——"</p> - -<p>"Oh, why didn't you let me die?" she cried.</p> - -<p>"I believe it would have been as well for many -of us. What a comfort for you, dear heroine, to -die consumed by an unhappy passion! Gaspara -Stampa, Properzia de' Rossi, and other illustrious -ladies of ancient times, with whose names you -have favoured me in your letters, would have -found their imitator. I'm sure you would have -died blessing me."</p> - -<p>Bowing her head, she sighed deeply, as if she -were indeed dying.</p> - -<p>"Instead of letting you die, I went through the -dismal farce of marrying you. And I assure you -that I've never ceased to regret it. I regretted it -the very minute after I'd made you my idiotic -proposal. Ah, well, every man has his moments -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> -of inexplicable weakness, and he pays dearly for -them. And marriage, alas, hasn't proved a sentimental -comedy. With your pretentions to passion, -to love, to mutual adoration, you've bored me -even more than I expected."</p> - -<p>"But what, then, is marriage from your point -of view?" she cried.</p> - -<p>"A bothersome obligation, when a man marries -a woman like you."</p> - -<p>"You would have preferred my sister?" she -asked, exasperated. But she was at once sorry -for this vulgarity; and he speedily punished it.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I should have preferred your sister. She's -not a bore. I find her extremely diverting."</p> - -<p>"She loved you from the beginning," she says. -"A pity she didn't tell you so."</p> - -<p>"A pity. I assure you I should have married -her."</p> - -<p>"Ah, very well."</p> - -<p>But suddenly she raised her eyes to her husband; -and at the sight of that beloved person her -courage failed her. She took his hand, and said, -"Ah, Cesare, Cesare, you are right. But I loved -you, I loved you, and you have deceived me with -my sister."</p> - -<p>"Signora Dias, you have rather a feeble -memory," he returned, icily, drawing his hand -away.</p> - -<p>"How do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"I mean that you easily forget. We are face -to face; you can't lie. Have I ever told you that -I loved you?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No—never," she admitted, closing her eyes -agonised to have to admit it.</p> - -<p>"Have I ever promised to love you?"</p> - -<p>"No—never."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, according to the laws of love, I've -not deceived you, my dear Anna. My heart has -never belonged to you, therefore it's not been taken -from you. I promised nothing, therefore I owe -you nothing."</p> - -<p>"It's true. You're right, Cesare," she said; -draining this new cup of bitterness that he had -distilled for her.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you will speak to me of the laws of -the land. Very good; according to the law a -man and wife are required to be mutually faithful. -A magistrate would say that I had betrayed you. -But consider a little. Make an effort of memory, -Anna, and recall the agreement I proposed to -you that evening at Sorrento, before committing -my grand blunder. I told you that I wished to -remain absolutely free, free as a bachelor; and -you consented. Is it true or not true?"</p> - -<p>"It is true. I consented."</p> - -<p>"I told you that I would tolerate no interference -on your part with my relations with other -women; and remember, Anna, you consented. Is -that true or untrue?"</p> - -<p>"It is true," she said, feeling that she was -falling into an abyss.</p> - -<p>"You see, therefore, that neither according to -the laws of love nor according to the laws of -marriage have I betrayed you. And if you had -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> -a conscience, to adopt your own phraseology, if -you had the least loyalty, you would at once -confess that I have not betrayed you. You -accepted the whole bargain. I am free in heart, -and at liberty to do as I like. I have not -betrayed you. Confess it."</p> - -<p>"Cesare, Cesare, be human, be Christian; don't -require me to say that."</p> - -<p>"Tragedies are one thing, and truth is another, -Anna. I desire to establish the fact that I -haven't betrayed you, my dear. For what I did -last night, for what I may have done on any -other night, for what I may do any night in the -future, I have your own permission. Confess it."</p> - -<p>"I can't say that, do you understand?" she -cried. "Oh, you are always in the right; you -always know how to put yourself in the right. -You are right in your selfishness, in your perfidy, -in your wickedness, in your frightful corruption; -you were right in proposing that disgraceful -bargain to me, which I was not ashamed to -accept, and which you to-day so justly and so -appropriately remind me of. But I believed that -to love, to adore a man as I loved and adored -you, would be a charm to conquer with; and I -have lost. For you are stronger than I; indifference -is stronger than love; selfishness is -stronger than passion. Generous abandonment -cannot overcome the refined calculation of a -corrupt man. I am wrong, I alone, I confess it—since -I loved you to the point of dying for you, -since I imagined that that was enough, since I -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> -had in my soul the divine hope of winning you -by my love. I am wrong, I confess it; yes, I -confess it. I cannot love nor hate nor live. I -am nothing but a bore, a superfluous person, and -a tiresome; it is true; it is true. Say it again."</p> - -<p>"If you wish it, I will."</p> - -<p>"You are right. You are always right. I -have done nothing but blunder. I have always -obeyed the mad impulses of my heart. I fled -from my home. I ought not to have loved you, -and I loved you. I loved you; I have bored -you; and I myself, of my free will, gave you permission -to betray me. You are the most vicious -man I know. You're unredeemed by a thought -or a feeling. You horrify me. Under the same -roof with your wife, you have committed an odious -sin—a sin that would make the worst men shudder. -And I can't punish you, because I consented to it; -because I debased the dignity of my love before -you; because indeed I am a cowardly and infamous -creature. See how right you are! You -have sinned, but so far as I am concerned you are -innocent. I am infamous and cowardly, because -I ought to have died rather than accept that -loathsome bargain. Forgive me if I have upbraided -you. I'll ask Laura's pardon too. No -human being is soiled with an infamy so great as -mine. Forgive me."</p> - -<p>Perhaps he felt in these words the confusion of -madness; perhaps he saw the light of madness in -her eyes. But he was unmoved. She was a -woman who had led him into committing a folly, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> -who had bored him, and, what was more, who -would like to continue to bore him in the future. -He was unmoved. He was glad to have got the -better of her in this struggle. He was unmoved. -He thought it time to leave her, if he would retain -his advantage.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising.</p> - -<p>"Don't go away, don't go away," she cried, -throwing herself before him.</p> - -<p>"Do you imagine that this duet is pleasing?" -he asked, drawing on his gloves. "For the rest, -we've said all there is to say. I can't think you -have any more insults to favour me with."</p> - -<p>"You hate me, do you?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't hate you exactly."</p> - -<p>"Don't go away. Don't go away. I must tell -you something very serious."</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Anna," he repeated, moving towards -the door.</p> - -<p>"Cesare, if you go away, I shall do something -desperate," she cried, convulsively tearing her hair.</p> - -<p>"You'd be incapable. To do anything desperate -one must have talent. And you're a fool," he replied, -smiling ironically.</p> - -<p>"Cesare, if you go away, I shall die."</p> - -<p>"Bah, bah, you'll not die. To die one must have -courage." And he opened the door and went out.</p> - -<p>She ran to the threshold. He was already at a -distance. She heard the street door close behind -him. For a few minutes she stood there, fearing -to move lest she should fall; then mechanically -she turned back. She went to her looking-glass, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> -repaired the disorder of her hair, and put on a -hat, a black veil, and a sealskin cloak. She forgot -nothing. Her pocket-handkerchief was in her -muff; in her hand she carried her card-case of -carved Japanese ivory.</p> - -<p>At last she left her room, and entered her -husband's. A servant was putting it in order; -but, seeing his mistress, he bowed and took himself -off. She was alone there, in the big brown -chamber, in the gray winter daylight. She went -to her husband's desk, and sat down before it, as -if she were going to write. But, after a moment's -thought, she did not write. She opened a drawer, -took something from it, and concealed it in her -pocket.</p> - -<p>After that, she passed through the house and -out into the street.</p> - -<p>She crossed the Piazza Vittoria, and entered -the Villa Nazionale. Children were playing by -the fountain, and she stopped for a moment to -look at them. Twice she made the tour of the -Villa; then she looked at her watch; then she -seated herself on one of the benches. There were -very few people abroad. The damp earth was -covered with dead leaves.</p> - -<p>She fixed her eyes upon the dial of her watch, -counting the minutes and the seconds. All at -once she put her hand into her pocket, and felt -the thing that she had hidden there.</p> - -<p>Anna rose. It was two o'clock.</p> - -<p>She left the Villa, walking towards the Chiatamone. -Before the door of a little house in the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> -Via del Chiatamone she stopped. She hesitated -for a moment; then she lifted the bronze knocker, -and let it fall.</p> - -<p>The door was opened by Luigi Caracciolo.</p> - -<p>He did not speak. He took her hand, and -drew her into the house.</p> - -<p>They crossed two antechambers, hung with -old tapestries, ornamented with ancient and -modern arms, and with big Delft vases filled -with growing palms, a smoking-room furnished -with rustic Swiss chairs and tables, and entered a -drawing-room. The curtains were drawn, the -lamps lighted. The floor and the walls were -covered with Oriental carpets; the room was full -of beautiful old Italian furniture, statues, pictures, -bronzes. There were many flowers about, red -and white roses, subtly perfumed.</p> - -<p>Caracciolo took a bunch of roses, and gave -them to Anna.</p> - -<p>"Dear Anna—my dear love," he said.</p> - -<p>A faint colour came to her cheeks.</p> - -<p>"What is it? Tell me, Anna. Dear one, -dear one!"</p> - -<p>"Don't speak to me like that," she said.</p> - -<p>"Do I offend you? I can't think that I offend -you—I who feel for you the deepest tenderness, -the most absolute devotion."</p> - -<p>He took her hands.</p> - -<p>"It is dark here," she said.</p> - -<p>"The day was so sad, the daylight was so -melancholy. I have waited for you so many -hours, Anna."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I have come, you see."</p> - -<p>"Thank you for having remembered your faithful -servant." And delicately he kissed her gloved hand.</p> - -<p>"Why not open the curtains a little?" she asked.</p> - -<p>He drew aside his curtains, and let in the -ashen light. She went to the window, and -looked out upon the sea.</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna, come away. Somebody might -see you."</p> - -<p>"It doesn't matter."</p> - -<p>"But I can't allow you to compromise yourself, -Anna; I love you too much."</p> - -<p>"I have come here to compromise myself," she -said.</p> - -<p>"Then—you love me a little?" he demanded, -trying to draw her away from the window.</p> - -<p>She did not answer. She sat down in an -arm-chair.</p> - -<p>"Tell me that you love me a little, Anna."</p> - -<p>"I don't love you."</p> - -<p>"Dear Anna, dear Anna," he murmured with -his caressing voice, "how can I believe you, since -you are here. Tell me that you love me a little. -For three years I have waited for that word. -Dear Anna, sweet Anna, you know that I have -adored you for so long a time. Anna, Anna!"</p> - -<p>"What has happened was bound to happen," -she said.</p> - -<p>"Anna, I conjure you,<a name="FNanchor_G_7" id="FNanchor_G_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_G_7" class="fnanchor">[G]</a> tell me that you love -me."</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p> -<p>She shuddered as she heard him use the familiar -pronoun.</p> - -<p>"Do you love me?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I know nothing."</p> - -<p>"Dear one, dear one," he murmured, trembling -with hope, in an immense transport of love.</p> - -<p>He drew nearer to her and kissed her on the -cheek.</p> - -<p>A cry of pain burst from her, and she sprang -up, horrified, terrified, and tried to leave the room.</p> - -<p>"Oh, for mercy's sake, forgive me. Don't -go away. Anna, Anna, forgive me if I have -offended you. I love you so! If you go away -I shall die."</p> - -<p>"People don't die for such slight things."</p> - -<p>"People die of love."</p> - -<p>"Yes. But one must have courage to die."</p> - -<p>"Don't let us talk of these dismal things. My -love, we mustn't talk of things that will sadden -you. Your beautiful face is troubled. Tell me -that you forgive me. Do you forgive me?"</p> - -<p>"I forgive you."</p> - -<p>"I don't believe it. You don't forgive me. You -love another."</p> - -<p>"No, no—no other."</p> - -<p>"And Cesare?"</p> - -<p>But scarcely had he spoken the fatal name -when he saw his error. Her eyes blazed; she -trembled from head to foot, in a nervous convulsion.</p> - -<p>"Listen," she said. "If you have a heart, if -you have any pity, if you wish me to stay here -with you, never name him again, never name him."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You are right." But then he added, "And -yet you loved him, you love him still."</p> - -<p>"No. I love no one any more."</p> - -<p>"Why would you not accept me when I proposed -for you?"</p> - -<p>"Because."</p> - -<p>"Why did you marry that old man?"</p> - -<p>"Because."</p> - -<p>"And now why do you love him? Why do -you love him?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know."</p> - -<p>"You see, you do love him," he cried in despair.</p> - -<p>"Oh, God, oh, God!" she sobbed.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I am a fool. Forgive me, forgive me. -But I love you, and I lose my head. I love you, -and I am desperate. And I need to know if you -still love him. You will always love him? Is -it so?"</p> - -<p>"Till death," she said, with a strange look and -accent.</p> - -<p>"Say it again."</p> - -<p>"Till death," she repeated, with the same -strange intonation.</p> - -<p>They were silent.</p> - -<p>Luigi Caracciolo put his arm round her waist, -and drew her slowly towards him.</p> - -<p>Her eyes were fixed and void. She did not -feel his arms about her. She did not feel his -kisses. He kissed her hair, he kissed her sweet -white throat, he kissed her little rosy ear. Anna -was absorbed in a desperate meditation, far from -all human things. He kissed her face, her eyes, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> -her lips; she did not know it. But suddenly -she felt his embrace become closer, stronger; she -heard his voice change, it was no longer tender -and caressing, it was fervid with tumultuous -passion, it uttered confused delirious words. -Silently, looking at him with burning eyes, she -tried to disengage herself.</p> - -<p>"Let me go," she said.</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna, I love you so—I have loved you -so long!"</p> - -<p>"Let me go, let me go!"</p> - -<p>"You are my adored one—I adore you above -all things."</p> - -<p>"Let me go. You horrify me."</p> - -<p>He let her go.</p> - -<p>"But what have you come here for?" he asked, -sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>"I have come to commit an infamy."</p> - -<p>"Anna, Anna, you are killing me!"</p> - -<p>She looked at him fixedly.</p> - -<p>"What is it, Anna? Something is troubling -you, and you won't tell me what it is. My poor -friend! You have come here with an anguish in -your heart, wishing to escape from it; you have -come here to weep; and I have behaved like a -brute, a blackguard."</p> - -<p>"No, you are good, I shall remember you," -and she gave him her hand.</p> - -<p>"Don't go away. Tell me first what it is. Tell -me what you came for. Tell me, dearest Anna."</p> - -<p>"It's too long a story, too long," she said, as if -in a dream, passing her hand over her brow. "And -now I must go, I must go."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, stop here, talk to me, weep. It will do -you good."</p> - -<p>"I can't."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"My minutes are numbered. You'll understand -some day—to-morrow. Now I must go."</p> - -<p>"Anna, how can I let you go like this? You -have come here to be comforted, and I have treated -you shamefully. Forgive me."</p> - -<p>"You are not to blame, not in the least."</p> - -<p>"But what is it that you are in trouble about, -Anna? Who has been making you miserable, -my poor fond soul? Whose fault is it? Who is -to blame? Cesare?"</p> - -<p>"No, I am to blame, I only."</p> - -<p>"And Cesare—you admit it."</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Cesare is an infamous scoundrel, and I know -it," he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"It is I who am infamous."</p> - -<p>"I don't believe you. I should believe no one -who said that, Anna."</p> - -<p>"I must be infamous, since I alone am unhappy. -I must go."</p> - -<p>"Will you come back?—to-morrow? Anna, -you are so sad, you are in such distress, I can't let -you go."</p> - -<p>"No one can detain me, no one."</p> - -<p>"Anna, forget that I have spoken to you of -love."</p> - -<p>"I have forgotten it. Good-bye."</p> - -<p>"You musn't go like this. You are too much -agitated."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, I am calm. Listen, will you do me a -favour? You repeated some verses to me one -evening at Sorrento—some French verses—do you -remember?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Baudelaire's '<cite>Harmonie du Soir</cite>,'" he -answered, surprised by her question.</p> - -<p>"Have you the volume?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Take it, and copy that poem for me. Afterwards -I will say good-bye."</p> - -<p>He went into his library and brought back <cite>Les -Fleurs du Mal</cite>. He seated himself at his writing-table, -and looked at Anna. There was an expression -of such immense sorrow in her eyes, that -he faltered, and asked, "Shall I write?"</p> - -<p>She bowed her head. While he was writing -the first lines, Anna turned her back to him. She -put her hand into her pocket and brought forth a -little shining object of ivory and steel. He in a -low voice repeated the verse he was writing—"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Valse -mélancolique et langoureux vertige</i>"—when -suddenly there was the report of a pistol, and a -little cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling.</p> - -<p>Anna had shot herself through the heart, and -fallen to the floor. Her little gloved hand held -the revolver that she had taken from the drawer of -her husband's desk. Luigi Caracciolo stood rooted -to the carpet, believing that he must be mad.</p> - -<p>So died Anna Acquaviva, innocent.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_F_6" id="Footnote_F_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_F_6"><span class="label">[F]</span></a> <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Voi</i>, instead of the more familiar <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tu</i>, which he had previously -employed.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_G_7" id="Footnote_G_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_G_7"><span class="label">[G]</span></a> Having hitherto used the formal <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">voi</i>, he now uses the -intimate <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tu</i>.</p></div> - -</div> - -<div class="center" style= "margin-top: 4em;"> -<em>Printed by</em> <span class="smcap">Ballantyne, Hanson and Co.</span><br /> -<em>London & Edinburgh.</em><br /> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<hr /> - -<div class='tnote'> - -<h3>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES</h3> - -<p>The book title and the author's name were added to the book cover. -The modified version has been put in the public domain.</p> - -<p>A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and -non-hyphenated variants. For those words, the variant more frequently -used was retained. In some cases there was no predominant variant. The -hyphenated variant was chosen in those cases.</p> - -<p>The name 'Björnstjerne Björnson' was changed to 'Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson'.</p> - -<p>Obvious punctuation and printing errors, which were not detected -during the printing of the original book, have been corrected.</p> - -<p>The original book did not have a Table of Contents. One was added -after the Introduction.</p> - -</div> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Farewell Love!, by Matilde Serao - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAREWELL LOVE! *** - -***** This file should be named 54619-h.htm or 54619-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/6/1/54619/ - -Produced by Andrés V. 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